Disorganization
by Esse
Summary: They have an objective. Now all they need is venture capital, a bit of luck — and a better plan than panhandling. All good things must come to an end: So too all things mediocre.
1. Stage I

_**Disclaimer:** _Squix_ and _Dizzy Knee_ own the characters, the worlds, the souls of those unfortunate enough to fall under their spell. Esse owns her partially finished afghan. She'd own a _finished_ afghan if it weren't for _Dizzy Knee_ and _Squix_. She'd like to own Seifer's belly button — but is willing to admit that's never gonna happen. The _Dapper Dans_ are a force all their own._

_**Notes:** There're prolly countless stories out there _exactly_ like this one already. Truly, I couldn't help myself. A lot can happen during an unrecounted year. And the Organization… well, I've played the game. I wouldn't trust the Organization to pick up my trash… and to stay in the black, it might just come down to that :)_

_**Warnings:** Silly fic. Parentheses abuse. Uncontrollable tense shifts over very short chapters. Other than that… Language is a-okay, lyrics are kept to a minimum, fondness for Disneyland is a plus. Please remember, tis all in fun._

**Disorganization  
****Stage I  
**_alms for the poor_

They gathered, full conclave filled with dark purpose and darker desire. Here is the Organization in its glory, its strength; pay no attention to the empty seats and the vacancies on the roster, instead focus on the maneuvering for 4th. IV is _so_ much easier to sign on the requisition forms than VIII, or XVII — and it seems like just about _anynobody_ can make it into the Organization nowadays as long as they supply their own stylishly ominous black coat, bolero tie optional since members seldom bother with them for casual dress (though they'd turn you away at the door if you attempted to attend the yearly posh cotillion sans bolero, because the Organization has _standards_ it occasionally lives down to). They sit — bolero-less (besides Luxord, who's into turquoise at the moment, and silver medallions, and a ten gallon hat —which only holds 3 quarts of hard lemonade, more's the pity— that he'd won in one spectacular hand of strip poker, along with alligator-skin boots, fringed chaps, and a silver belt buckle in the shape of an arrow, pointing down). They sit, and they fidget, and they natter quietly, wondering what's delayed their Numero Uno — that wanker — whose tardiness was keeping them from their afternoon soaps.

Ah! They quieted down (besides Luxord, whose ten gallon hat is now down by two quarts and whose singing voice might be pleasant if it weren't slurred beyond all recognition — and Demyx, playing accompaniment courtesy of his sitar; _Grim Grinning Ghosts_ lent an incongruous bounce to the room's dire atmosphere, but Demyx sorely needed the practice, if ever he were to fulfill his un-life-long ambition of joining the Dapper Dans on their bicycle for four) and stilled their fidgeting (never mind the tapping toes, for Demyx and his soggy duplicates had found the beat; ignore Axel and his whoops of, 'Dance water, dance!'; best not to notice the merrily clapping Xaldin, you'd be scarred for life by the fact he's eating Jolly Time Healthy Pop Kettle Corn. Really). He comes. The Head Honcho. Their leader. Their salvation.

Such a pity he slipped in a puddle left by the dozy doeing water forms and fell flat on his face, ruining his dramatic entrance. _So_ unfortunate Xaldin still happened to be clapping. Xemnas lifted his face from the marble floor (yeah, literally, reached up his arm and pulled his head up by his long, pretty pretty hair, 'cause he'd _smashed_ his head into the tile; see, there's the impact crater in the shape of Xemnas' pretty, pretty head) and glared at Xaldin. Pouted his pretty pretty lips into a frown, and said, "That's it, Mister. Get used to being III. Umm, Xigbar, you be II. Un-disclosed and unimportant XVII, you're back to being a Dusk. Get lost. Or get a mop. And a towel…" he commanded, wringing water from his dripping, silvery, oh-so-pretty locks.

XVII huffed, and muttered, "Oh gee!" before leaving the room, his cute mouse-y tail whipping in agitated rodent dismay. How XVII was supposed to successfully spy on the Organization while out mop hunting was a mystery. How the Organization failed to notice his enormous round ears… we'll not speculate on. It'll give us pimples.

Xemnas managed to stand, and drip, and bring down the jovial mood of the conclave. It's what he did best. Second best. He crossed his arms, and glowered, and _counted_ the empty chairs. "Where are they?"

"Whoa! Is that, like, a metaphysical question?" Axel scratched at his chin, then his wrists, and finally his left shin, all the while silently cursing Roxas and his fondness for orange blossom shower gels that persistently left the red haired man with unsightly allergic rashes. "Do we go to the light, or are we bound for eternal darkness? Is there life after death for those who aren't truly alive to begin with? If we walk in twilight and shadow—"

"They're dead," Saïx interrupted. 'Cause that's just the way he is. Fuddy-duddy was magic markered on the door of his Organization locker. He carried a card. But don't bother asking for it; he won't show it, that fuddy-duddy.

"Dead?" Xemnas sat in his chair, and gracefully folded his hands over the suspicious bulge underneath his coat. "All of them?"

"Well, Roxas is off angsting; you know, existential crisis and all, oh woe is him, blah blah whatever," Axel said, feeling vindictive… and very, _very_ itchy, and vaguely citrus-scented. "But Vexen? I can _so_ vouch for. Can't get much deader than that." He smirked, and scratched, and plotted revenge on his roomie.

"We don't leave corpses," Xigbar argued while holding out his eye patch, squinting through both eyes indecisively while wondering if he should just _visit_ the optometrist; a monocle would be _so_ much cooler than his tatty patch — not that he needed either. "I'd say, folks could get a whole lot deader than us. Man, I wish I could rot…"

"_When you hear the knell of a requiem bell_," Luxord belted heartily, third quart of hard lemonade tucked away behind his shiny silver belt buckle, "_weird glows gleam where spirits dwell_… C'mon, D-dude, backup!"

Demyx — immune to Xemnas' glare, Saïx's best berserk battle aura, and Xaldin's popcorn encrusted sideburns — merrily joined in the singing, images of a striped blazer, straw boater hat, and his very own set of Deagan Organ Chimes filling his head (with room to spare, but it wouldn't be nice to point that out to the poor lad whose sole ambition is to one day sing Barber Shop professionally to jaded tourists in the coffee shop on Main Street). "_Restless bones etherealize, __rise as spooks of ev'ry size_…"

"_Grim grinning ghosts come out to socialize_! …What?" Axel asked huffily, as assorted looks were cast his way. "It's the chorus. You're supposed to join in on the chorus. That's why there's an **us** in the word. Duh." He slumped back in his seat, shrugging. "Lighten up. It's not like I busted out with _God Rest You Merry Grinning Ghosts_."

"_Cold dead eyes_…" Xemnas whispered fondly before shaking his (wet, dripping, yet still oddly pretty) head. "Which is besides the point," he said, raising his voice till it filled the chamber and sent back echoes that sounded somewhat like a schoolgirl asking for a pony — but sounded _much_ more like Xemnas asking for a pony.

"What color pony… I mean… What is the point?" Saïx rubbed the crossed scars between his eyes, and debated on whether he should once more release his awesome fury… but his blade was _heavy_ and his ears were pointed and he occasionally caught himself wistfully glancing through archery catalogues and _Modern Elf_ magazine. —Which he couldn't even say he was holding for a friend, since Saïx was absolutely friendless. It's the fate of a fuddy-duddy, you know.

"The point _is_ XVII hasn't returned with my towel!" Xemnas shrieked, flinging his fists into the air while staring beseechingly up into the dark sky (since the Nobodies' Business Construction Crew had yet to put a roof on the castle being built, just in case you were wondering why he wasn't beseeching the stucco-covered ceiling or some such). "Erm, wait, no…" Thought rested uneasily upon his pretty pretty face. "My point is," he reached (dramatically) into his coat… and pulled out… (dramatically!) a tin can, decorated with construction paper to resemble a purple bunny. "It's time to pay your dues!"

"Dues?" Demyx strummed a chord — but it was flat and uninspired.

"Dues?" Axel also had pointed ears, but the only magazine he perused regularly was _Cook's Illustrated_ (and we shall gloss over his one attempt at blackened catfish, which consisted of several gleeful 'Burn, baby!' chortles, much smoke, one disgruntled bottom feeder released back into the wild the next day, and Roxas spending the night hiding fearfully in the rafters with his emergency stash of pretzels). "What's this, dues?"

"You're members of the Organization." Rattling the tin can, Xemnas' lips tilted upwards — the closest he could come to a smile (since his pratfall had chipped a bicuspid, and there's been no time to see a dentist, not that there'd _be_ a dentist down in the city; dental professionals seldom leave behind Nobodies, since dental professionals seldom have hearts for the Heartless to steal). "And with membership comes fees. Look around you: Do you think this castle is paying for itself?"

Xaldin picked popcorn skins from his teeth with one of his many lances. "I thought the castle was being built with Dusk slave labor…"

Sighing, Xemnas tried rattling his can louder. "Sure, the labor's free, but what of the materials? The marble? The concrete? The mood lighting?" He pointed to where a vaguely heart-shaped moon-thing should have been looming overhead had the sky not been filled with gloomy drizzle clouds.

"Not the mood lighting," Luxord rasped, tipsily getting to his alligator-shod feet and shuffling across the room. "Gotta have mood lighting." Reaching into his pockets, he pulled out handfuls of Tic-Tacs, playing cards, and bubblegum wrappers along with a stunning pair of soldier earrings, all of which were dropped into the tin can with a jarring clang. "How'm I supposed t' get anyone in the mood, without bloody mood lighting? Am I right, Huggybear?"

"That's Xigbar, you lush," the patched, scarred, striped, newly dubbed II snarled — partly in envy, since all his pockets contained were a spare pair of gloves and some lint, and partly because anything he _didn't_ snarl came out sounding rather valley-ish. And that didn't fit his image, unless he wanted to go with the Huggybear thing. Maybe once he had his monocle… "You can't be serious, Xemnas. We're evil. Evil doesn't worry about paying its bills."

"Hey, hey," Demyx strummed, and thrummed, and got out a good portion of _It's a Small World_ before he remembered he was objecting. "Easy with the labels. Evil, or good? Who knows? Gotta have a heart to be either; haven't you read your _Newly Nobody_ guidebook?" With a final, discordant clash he stood, passing his sitar to a water form summoned from the puddle surrounding Xemnas' boots.

"Where are you off to?" Not that Saïx cared, unless it was to Twilight Town for ice cream. He might have been a card-carrying fuddy-duddy, but he was a fuddy-duddy with dyed blue hair, an interesting tattoo hidden underneath his pink woolen long johns, and a reputation around Miz Maizy's Ice Cream Emporium for being a bit of a sorbet slut.

Demyx waved a careless goodbye. "Gonna start my career as a street performer. How else am I gonna pay my dues?"

"Indeed." Xemnas nodded regally as the jiggling crowd of water forms passed, then fixed his attention on the remaining members. "How _are_ you going to pay? Cashier's check? PayPal? Hmm, Axel?"

"Oh, c'mon!" The red haired man petulantly kicked the chair next to his own, leaving nasty scratches for Roxas to find, and eventually repair with much sandpaper and elbow grease. "We're broke, boss man. If we had anything, and I mean _anything_ going for us, do you really think we'd be hanging out here?" Various nods and mumbles of 'Right on!' and 'Amen to that!' followed; Axel beamed in return (and was thereby forever dubbed the friendly face of the Organization, a much better title than fuddy-duddy or Huggybear, and it almost made being stuck as VIII bearable).

"Well, no, I guess not…" Xemnas moped as the other men deserted him, leaving him alone in the wet, crater-pocked, roofless room. "But where," he whimpered, pulling out the earrings from his bunny-motifed can and trying them on, "am I to get the funds to finance my master plan?" He studied himself in a handheld mirror (which he kept hidden up one of his voluminous sleeves, along with his hair spray and the current issue of _Cosmo_, because being the pretty one took work, especially when he got his sleeves confused and accidentally tried brushing his hair with his glowy-not-saber swords instead) and pondered the dilemma.

"Umm, excuse me," XVII scampered in, fluffy azure towel in one hand, top-secret structural diagrams in the other, and various key chains strung along his tail. "I couldn't help but overhear your predicament. I know how you can raise munny. Lots and lots of munny!"

I listened to XVII, then began to laugh. Not evilly, and not goodly, but sort of in-betweeny in a bland kind of way, more like a tee-hee-hee instead of a proper ha-ha! The Organization would get its roof, and new leather for gloves worn thin by all the snapping the members did (some to summon Nobodies, and some to summon Heartless, and some for no better reason than they got a kick out of snapping their fingers under other people's noses). Xemnas laughed — and set into motion the first diabolical threads of Operation: Fundraiser.

**end Stage I**

The Organization: A group of incomplete people wanting to become whole. Common sense would've been a good start. Sadly, that ended up somewhere else whenever a Nobody was created. _Newly Nobody_ speculated it ended up inside little green apples (_chapter four: Why am I Trying to Destroy the World?_) which only goes to show _how_ lacking common sense was amongst the Nobody population. It _did_ make for record sales of little green apples, though.

**advance to Stage II  
**_Riku vs. Roxas vs. Milk vs. Dark_

**_End Notes:_** Grim Grinning Ghosts — _Words by X Atencio. All you'd ever want to know about the_ Dapper Dans _can be found at_ harmonize dot com slash dapperdans _. Give Shelby, Tim, Jim, and Bill your wuv!_


	2. Stage II

**Disorganization  
****Stage II  
**_Riku vs. Roxas. vs. Milk vs. Dark_

Roxas is out in the city, and it's raining heavy, chill drops because Roxas is angsting — and it's hard to work up a good angst-fest when the sun is shining and the birds are singing and the rainbows are — rainbowing. Thus the downpour and the Shadows creeping along in bright yellow slickers and galoshes and hand painted umbrellas covered with pretty roses and vines and carousel horses. The Shadows — are rather ruining the gloomy atmosphere of the dark, dreary city.

Demyx, sitting on the street corner with his sitar case open and collecting water, is downright _cheery_ as he croons to the passing Heartless. "_Drip, drip drop when the sky is cloudy_…" A Neoshadow gives him a thumb's up and drops a coupon good for 10 percent off a manicure at Madame Poof's just down the way; it's not the fortune Demyx was hoping to earn, but he's torn a nail — and just yesterday Saïx was complaining about his nail biting. Encouraged, he raises his voice to be heard over the distant rumble of Thundaga. "_Your pretty music_…"

Spotting a figure standing atop Memory's Skyscraper, Roxas tromps over to Demyx, his socks squelching with each step — 'cause colorful galoshes would have _killed_ his cultivated melancholy. "Hey, Demyx," he greets the musician. "Could you play, I dunno, something a bit… edgier? I mean, I'm about to have this huge showdown with a mysterious adversary — and listening to your Bambi tribute is sorta bringing me down."

"Really? The Shadows seem to like it well enough…" Demyx would have ran his hand through his short mohawk, but the rain has plastered his hair to the sides of his head, leaving no mohawk to run his hand through. Instead, his hand hovers an inch above his scalp for a minute before realizing the futility of its task and returning to the twisted metal strings of the sitar. As if with a mind of their own (and, hey, with the Organization, you never can tell) his fingers begin picking out bright, ringing notes. "_Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey_—"

Roxas forever tarnished his ultra-cool tuff-guy image when he yelped and jumped up a nearby lamppost to escape the capering water forms. (Had the casual viewing public known that they were also groping, lecherous, perverted water forms, they might have judged his panicked reaction more kindly, but Roxas would never admit to being goosed — 'cause _that's_ an image he would never live down.) "Umm…" he stammers, trying to figure out how to summon his Keyblades without letting go of the post, "that'd be fine — if I were fighting Bulky Vendors. Couldn't you play something more, er," he makes a face, all cute baring of teeth and wrinkling of nose and sparkling of eye, "grr-ish?"

"Oh." The water forms dissipate back into puddles and soggy newspaper while Demyx (or his fingers — we aren't positive who's in charge of making important decisions, although we're pretty sure his elbows call the shots when it comes to Civics) mentally sorts his vast repertoire of ditties, jingles, and folksongs. Reluctantly, he begins playing _The Encounter_. "How's that?"

Sliding down the post to the empty street (if you discount Demyx ((like everyone else does)), and the Shadows who've been watching the entire encounter curiously, and the mysterious adversary who's long since climbed down from the Skyscraper, tired of waiting for his opponent and a bit leery of staying in the vicinity of the largest lightning rod in the city) Roxas shrugs, brings forth his Keyblades, and poses as heroically as a dripping wet, scrawny adolescent who's expected to fight accompanied by Pete's battle theme can pose. "…I guess this'll do." He twirls Oblivion before tossing it to his adversary (because fair's fair — and there can hardly be an epic battle between Keyblade Masters if one of them has no Keyblade to swing) and raises Oathkeeper with pained resignation: It's hard to be cool when your legendary 'blade takes the shape of pretty, pretty flowers.

"Why, why do you have the Keyblade?" his adversary asks — and it really throws him off his stride, 'cause he's been wondering the same thing. Why does he have the Keyblade? Why, when the X is taken out of his name, does it spell Rosa? Why does he prefer sourdough over whole wheat? He then slaps his forehead; those weren't _his_ questions, they were Axel's — and his roommate hadn't been all that sober when he'd been asking them.

"Shut up," Roxas grates (though to his adversary, the memory of Axel's annoying voice, or Demyx who has started humming along to his playing we can't be sure. Let's point fingers at Naminé, she's easy to blame). "Shut up shut up shut up." He waves Oathkeeper wildly (so no one can see that it looks like pretty, pretty flowers, one supposes), and nearly trips on his waterlogged shoelaces. "You I **_kill_** now!"

'Wait, Liege!' A Nobody appears (well, of course it would be a Nobody; if they had an _important_ part to play they'd be a Somebody, wouldn't they?) before them, holding a gaily colored cardboard box. 'You can't kill him.'

"Why not?" And really, Roxas is rather set on hurting _someone_ this evening (after all, his Other got all the niceness; he was left with hate and a hankering for coconut cream pies, neither of which stands him in good stead when dealing with the public).

'Why not?' the Nobody repeats incredulously while shaking the contents of its box. 'Besides the fact he'd rot? Remember the Plan, Liege!'

"Oh, right. The Plan." Thoroughly dispirited, Roxas allows Oathkeeper to fade back into nothingness (though it left a pretty, pretty flower-shaped afterimage) and takes the box away from the Nobody — banishing the Dusk with a snap (which he somehow managed with his middle finger pointing straight up; he's just talented that way, I guess). "You, adversary…"

"Riku," the other man says, pulling off his (wet and rather icky) blindfold.

"Riku…" He tugs at the silver beads dangling from his coat's drawstring — and wishes he'd worn his bolero, since it's much more impressive. "I'm Roxas. That," he points to the humming, strumming boy sitting on the curb playing to an appreciative crowd of Dancers and misplaced water kigh, "is Demyx. Would you… like to buy a bar of chocolate? Proceeds support the Organization."

"…Chocolate?" Riku might have been flabbergasted — if he weren't so amazingly awesome. Instead, he's mildly confused. "You're selling chocolate?"

"Yeah. It's Xemnas' idea, since none of us have jobs and he's tired of our freeloading." Roxas lifts out a bar and stares at it dubiously. The wrapper reads _Dizzy Knee Delite_. "At least, that's what Axel said. Personally, I think we'd be better off using the bars to roof the castle."

"But…" Riku's having trouble understanding. "The big, bad Organization is selling chocolate — for munny?"

"…Yeah."

The silver-haired boy (who might be pretty pretty but will never be fairest in the land according to the city charter established by Xemnas, as seconded by his flattering magic hand mirror) pulls out his Soul Eater key chain along with a handful of munny and the tabs from a six-pack of diet cola. "Umm, you do know," he carefully pulls back the shiny foil covering one of the smaller denominations, "that munny is nothing more than chocolate coins?" He pops the candy into his mouth and chews. "_Cheap_ milk chocolate at that."

"Huh?" Roxas catches the coin Riku flips his way — then pockets it. "Figures. But since you paid for it… here." He passes over a slightly squished bar while wondering how he's going to be rid of the nineteen others still lurking inside the by-now dank box. "Thanks for your support, the Organization appreciates your continued patronage, your donations are tax deductible bladda bladda…" He turns to Demyx, hoping he hasn't forgotten anything. "I can bash 'im now, right?"

"Sure you can." Demyx pushes back his scraggily bangs — then gives into temptation and bites off the torn nail that's been plaguing him. "Only, I think you're too late."

"What?" Twirling around (actually pirouetting, thanks to the ballet class he'd been attending with Xigbar, but let's keep that a secret for now, shall we? Xaldin thinks they're off duck hunting; if he knew they were taking dance, he'd want to come, too. Why else do you think he wears a mint green tutu underneath his bulky coat?), Roxas comes face to chocolate-smeared face with Riku. "Wait a minute; you're not supposed to **eat** the bar! What are you trying to do, poison yourself?"

Riku staggers, and clutches at the lamppost with smirched fingers. "Dark. It's too — dark. Ugh. I'm not strong enough…" With a last, lingering whimper of, "So bitter!" he flees, the partially eaten bar of chocolate left behind the only evidence he'd ever been there (besides the discarded Oblivion, King Mickey's To-Do list, scattered munny, a bewildered wooden puppet boy, and DiZ's platinum credit card).

"Great. Just great. Now who do I get to whack?" Roxas pouts as he slumps next to Demyx, chucking fundraising bars at passing Shadows in the pensive hope it would shake munny loose. "A perfect angst-filled rage, wasted, and for what? Chit-chat with Riku."

"Don't forget DiZ's card." Tucking his sitar into its case (the instrument was made from water, so the rain puddled in the bottom would scarcely hurt it, and _might_ even keep it in tune, but would most definitely mold if the various coupons and subway stubs weren't eventually removed) Demyx tapped the square piece of plastic against his friend's nose. "With this, our dues are as good as paid!"

**end Stage II**

Roxas: Unlucky XIII of the Organization, a Nobody with few memories of who he once was — and little ambition to find out who he might _be_. His favorite hobbies include walking disconsolately through rain showers, nagging Axel to clean his flaming hair out of the shower drain, and pondering _why_ exactly he let Xemnas talk him into leaving Twilight Town. With the sudden (and suspicious) departure of several Organization members, he expects to be promoted to VIII any day now — which he claims is even unluckier than XIII; it's Axel's designation, after all.

Demyx: Number IX of the Organization, sitar player extraordinaire; he longs for the day when he'll take his proper place as a Dapper Dan. Unable to attract groupies, he instead surrounds himself with water forms — some of which look suspiciously like Xemnas (who denies any culpability, but can't help smirking lewdly from time to time). He's an easy-going fellow until you get him angry, at which point he'll camp outside your bedroom window and serenade you with the easy-listening versions of the newest hits from Atlantica. Needless to say, he is properly feared by the other Organization members.

**advance to Stage III  
**_you've got a friend in me_

**_End Notes:_** Little April Showers — _Words by Larry Morey._ Mairzy Doats — _Words and Music by Milton Drake, Al Hoffman, and Jerry Livingston (performed, of course, by the Dapper Dans!)_


	3. Stage III

**Disorganization  
****Stage III  
**_you've got a friend in me_

There's a long, broad hallway (wide enough for Lexaeus, trendy enough for Larxene, what a shame they are no more; what a greater shame we can't use the perfectly good euphemism 'taking the long dirt nap' to explain away their absence since there's nothing left of them to fertilize the daisies they're incapable of pushing up) that only Organization members use. Well, Organization members and spies dressed as Organization members. And the Nobodies' Business Construction Crew, 'cause the hallway isn't finished yet. That's right, walk along it far enough and you'll end up splatted against the oriental-rugged floor of the room below, but the NBCC was kind enough to post a warning sign five feet from the drop-off. It's not their fault Xigbar lugged the sign off to use for target practice… but that's not stopping XVII from filing a lawsuit seeking recompense for the pain and suffering he's endured while his tail's been laid up in a sling.

So. There's a hallway, and it meanders about the unfinished castle, eventually passing each and every Organization member's room. (The ones that were finished, that is. It doesn't, as has already been explained, extend to the yet-to-be built rooms, which clarifies why XVII took a header into the parlor; construction's only just been started on X's room — and doesn't that neatly explain why Roxas is bunking with Axel? And Luxord with Demyx? Of course, there are three rooms that no longer have members to occupy them, but everyone ((meaning mostly Xemnas)) agrees that their décor is _incredibly_ tacky and that it would just be easier to brick up their doorways and forget that they — and their previous residents — ever existed.)

So, again. There's a hallway, and there are extremely large, wet footprints leading down it. If you follow them, you'll eventually encounter Roxas, who's standing in front of a closed door looking somewhat sheepish and just a tad desperate for the lua. He's knocking (shave and a haircut) and bouncing from foot to foot, but the door's not opening, though he knows Axel is inside.

"C'mon already!" His knocks turned to pounds joined by an occasional frustrated kick. "Let me in you jerk."

"Jerk, is it?" And here is the scene we've finally arrived upon: Axel opened the door, surveyed his sopping roommate, and promptly clicked his tongue. "You forgot your galoshes again, didn't you? Wet socks get you **_so_** cranky. And I made sure to get you cute froggy ones…"

Roxas pushed his way past the (much) taller man and dashed into the bathroom — for the sole purpose of changing his socks. Because they were _disgusting_ and squelched up between his toes and maybe Axel had a point but he wouldn't be caught dead wearing cute froggy galoshes while out angsting in the city. He couldn't be caught dead, period — but never you mind, the gist of his threat was clear enough.

And once his socks were changed (and while he might have drawn the line at froggy galoshes, he obviously saw nothing demeaning in yellow kitten slippers, even if they were covered in pompoms) he decided that, yes, the rest of his clothing was uncomfortable and beyond damp as well. Off came coat and pants and festive sweater knitted by Zexion (Axel had snitched the matching scarf, and Xemnas knew what happened to the fluffy cap, but wasn't talking — about the cap, at least) and on went the wonderfully soft yellow kitten robe, so that from the top of his head to the tips of his toes he was one adorable bundle of sunshine.

Angst had been left in the hallway. Good thing; the poor Angst demon would have died of shock, had it caught sight of Roxas puttering out of the bathroom demanding a cup of cocoa, whipped cream a plus — and expected. Luckily, Angst had followed Saïx to the large opening in the wall where one day gorgeous plate glass windows would rest; it was entertained for the rest of the evening by the man's pleas of, "Where is my heart? My valentine's card? My box of assorted truffles, O moon? Is a pound of toffee too much to ask?"

The rest of the Organization tended to shy away from Saïx during the month of February. All except Demyx, who made giant lacy valentines for everyone, and took great delight in passing them out along with sappy love songs and sonnets and Whitman Samplers.

Ehn, but we were snooping on Roxas, weren't we? Yes, now-huggable Roxas who'd curled himself at one end of the couch around his mug (Wake Up Grumpy. His Eeyore: Another Blustery Day cup had been claimed by Xaldin a week ago, and he was too discomfited by the man's funky hairstyle to complain. Much) topped with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles and a dusting of nutmeg. He was comfortable, and drowsy — and out of debt.

"Did you find what you were looking for, out in the city?" Axel asked (with a mug of cocoa in hand, but thankfully _not_ in a kitten robe; his was slinky green silk — and you could only see the embroidered turtles when he was standing).

"I guess." A sip and a murmur of appreciation before Roxas continued. "I thought no one would miss me. But… Luxord caught up with me at the Brink of Despair, double-checking that I'd be at Monte Carlo night. Xigbar wanted to play Hide and Seek at Fragment Crossing — but I had to turn him down; you really gotta be good at hiding, if you're playing against Xigbar, you know? He uses lasers… And then at the Skyscraper, me and Demyx… well, it was _really_ weird. Did you know," he turned towards his roommate, his blue eyes wide (not with wonderment, because, lets face facts, his eyes are _always_ wide, but if they _weren't_… well then, they'd be wide with wonderment) and his upper lip covered in sweetened cream, "munny is made out of chocolate?"

"Really?" The red haired man shrugged eloquently. "Figures Xemnas would have us selling chocolate for chocolate. Huh." There was companionable silence (as opposed to the uncompanionable silence taking place one room over, where Saïx and Angst were busily cutting large red hearts out of construction paper; there's glitter in blue hair, glitter in pink long johns, and glitter covering the pages of _Modern Elf_ — but that was the publisher's doing, in the belief that elves needed to be _extra_ sparkly; Saïx is still weighing the pros and cons — but he's bought a tube of body glitter, _just in case_), and cocoa drinking, and Axel had set the bookshelf on fire in case they decided to roast marshmallows later on. "But, umm…" he stuttered, before finding his courage (in the form of his moogle beanie wedged underneath the couch cushion). "But you came back. Here."

"Yeah, well…" Roxas _almost_ smiled bashfully; really, he would've if he could've, but his Other's used up both their quotas of smiles, grins, inane laughs, thumb fiddling, and childish pouts. It doesn't leave Roxas a lot to work with; he can _almost_ do just about anything, though. "It's raining outside. Besides… I got to thinking: The city's filled with Nobodies and Shadows. And that's it. Not much chance of me running across my Other there. So, until I get some sorta clue as to where he's at, I might as well stay here."

"Right…" Axel chuckled nervously, and used the tip of his sexy green silk (parasailing turtle embroidered) slipper to hide the TOP SECRET KEYBLADE MASTER REPORT underneath the coffee table. "Great. Terrific. Since you're staying, why don't we portal over to Traverse Town tomorrow? Get you a new bedroom set? Antique lace comforter? Lava lamp? Some cookies; you like cookies, right?" He beamed, and his cheeks dimpled, and the fire spread from the bookshelf to the unfinished rafters above it.

Oblivious to the conflagration (hey, around Axel a person _had_ to get inured to furniture, rare _Sleepy Hollow Bastion_ action figures, and unfortunate bystanders spontaneously combusting) Roxas gulped cocoa and nodded. "Sounds good, as long as we're not late for Luxord's buy in."

"All right!" The redhead grinned happily, and began grabbing up their most cherished possessions and chucking them out the door to the safety of the hallway beyond. "Maybe I'll get lucky, and be able to sell some of those disgusting _Dizzy Knee Delite_ bars while we're there. Can you believe Xemnas saddled me with thirty cases of the nasty things? I haven't been able to offload a single one, let alone, umm…" He held up his fingers, tried counting on them, then used them to massage his throbbing temples. "Yuck. Math. Hurts…"

"Let 'em burn," Roxas said casually, saving his mug collection from the kitchen before the rising flames made passage impossible. He smugly patted the pompom strewn pocket of his robe (quite the feat, with his hands full of mugs — but he can _almost_ do anything, and his Minnie: Mornings Are Ugly cup was no great loss) and kicked his (always packed and always ready 'cause this was the ninth room they've had to quickly vacate) suitcase before him. "I ran into a mysterious adversary at the Skyscraper. That is, formerly mysterious adversary currently calling himself Riku, whom I defeated with one well-sold _Delite_ bar. He left behind DiZ's credit card. Me an' Demyx charged our dues. You can do the same. Xemnas was thrilled and immediately went out to get a facial."

"Ooh, credit card fraud. I like!" (He also likes tropical sunsets, his _lei hulu_, fruity drinks topped with paper umbrellas, and long walks along the beach, but was able to keep that information off his bio.) By now the majority of their irreplaceable possessions had been saved (or at least flung haphazardly out into the hallway) and they watched their residence burn with little concern, until Axel remembered that he'd left a half-finished bottle of Kirsch in the fridge.

Demyx, hearing the noise (not of the room collapsing into smoldering embers, but of Axel's head banging against the wall), peeked out from his room. "Not again, you guys," he sighed after spotting the bright, crackling flames (you'd think the billowing smoke would have been a dead give-away, but none of the Organization members were particularly talented chefs, so corridors filled with smoke were a common occurrence; it was the source of the smoke that varied). "You're not staying with me, not this time."

"C'mon, D. Be a pal," Axel cajoled (with one arm around the musician, one arm around a thrilled water form, and the side of his über-wicked green silk ((roller-blading turtle embroidered)) robe becoming increasingly moist and unpleasant). "It'll be like a slumber party. We'll stay up, play spin the sitar, and sing fire songs—"

"**_Camp_** fire songs," Roxas corrected, nudging Demyx out of the way to get inside the room the older boy was guarding.

"Of course," Axel agreed with an amicable hoot. "_What I desire is man's red fire…_"

"Just — get in already," Demyx caved (for he'd always been a sucker for pretty guys willing to sing sweet orangutan ditties in his ear, and King Louie had always been one of his favorites), stepping aside for the taller man to enter. "And **don't** touch Luxord's house of card…s…" he warned a second too late as Roxas brought the fragile construct tumbling down with one ill-placed finger. "Aw man… he's gonna be pissed." He closed the door, and began picking up lewd playing cards.

Out in the hallway, Saïx paused next to the burning room, his arms filled with beautiful paper hearts — all addressed to him. Spotting a Tinker Bell coffee mug, he bent to pick it up, accidently dropping his valentines in the process. "My hearts!" he cried, trying desperately to catch them as they fluttered to the ground. "Help me!" he commanded Angst, as the first of his hearts caught fire. "Wai, not my cobalt glitter Twu Luv heart!" His devastation was too deep for even his maniac rage to break through.

Angst, being the fair-weather friend most demons are, sat back and filed its nails to sharp, polished points, and thought about seeing what Xaldin was up to.

**end Stage III**

Axel: Number VIII of the Organization, all-around fun-loving pyromaniac with a soft spot for kittens and Roxas (which he sometimes has trouble telling apart). He knows how to party, smile, and abandon a losing side, which makes other Organization members wonder if he's actually a Nobody at all — or an important Somebody out slumming. Theories abound, the most accepted being that Xemnas brought him into the Organization not for his usefully destructive (or destructively useful) tendencies, but to increase fangirl enlistment in the Organization Reserve. Only Axel knows the truth… he just can't remember it. His _lei hulu_ is a lei made of feathers, formerly worn by royalty. He dons it for special occasions, such as bachelor parties.

Saïx: Number VII of the Organization — but somehow he's missed out on all the luck inherent in his designation. Official overbearing fuddy-duddy, he's a moon-worshipping elf-wannabe prone to fits of berserk rage and foaming at the mouth, just never at the same time. It's believed both traits were established in early childhood, when poor Isa was teased by his age mates for having such a girly name (and figure, and voice, and wardrobe). Staunchest supporter of Xemnas, his position is currently in doubt due to his inability to raise funds to cover the newly instituted membership fees. He scares off potential customers, you see. Even the die-hard chocoholics.

**advance to Stage IV  
**_when the going gets rough, just shop with somebody tough_

**_End Notes:_** I Wan'na Be Like You — _Lyrics by Louis Prima : for some reason, I can _see_ Axel singing this; I need sedation. All Disney mugs actually exist, and all are unbearably cute. Quick reminder that the Roxas we grew to know and love at the beginning of KHII was actually DiZ's false personality layered over the _real_ Roxas, so no one really knows what's IC for him._


	4. Stage IV, Stage I, Stage III

**Disorganization  
****Stage IV  
**_when the going gets rough, just shop with somebody tough _

There's a legend that tells of a Town of unsurpassed beauty. Of kindly citizens and glitzy department stores. Of fountains and bronze memorials and socialized medicine that actually works. The people who live there enjoy paid hour-long lunches and Fridays off; they have football teams of both sorts, and the chili dogs scarfed down at games never, _ever_ give them heartburn. It is, in a nutshell, paradise in miniature — inside a nutshell. If you're lucky enough to visit, go ahead, drink the water — it's lemon-flavored and carbonated straight out of the tap. Fat chance of ever finding this Town, though. It's affluent enough to have bought anonymity. Yet adventurers continue to search for it, always hoping that the _next_ World will be the Town of their dreams.

Those who find themselves stranded in Traverse Town instead have been known to jump from the roof of the infamous Gizmo Shop.

Now, there are those who believe Traverse Town ceased to exist when the Worlds were restored; that the hodgepodge of leftovers drifted back from whence they'd come, taking their disturbing (and generally disturbed) denizens along with them. This couldn't be further from the truth. (Well, claiming that Traverse Town transformed into a giant fuku-wearing robot for peace and peanut brittle would be further from the truth… if it weren't for those photos published in the _Universal Snitch_: It's hard to argue with proof like that.) In actuality, Traverse Town survived much like its mightier cousin the cockroach has — by finding a big, ugly rock to hide under.

Hollow Bastion served admirably.

And so it was that Roxas and Axel found themselves wandering around Second District (every so often dodging the distraught tourists BASE-jumping without parachutes to their splattery dooms) carrying bags filled with trinkets courtesy of DiZ's apparently limitless credit card. Roxas had splurged, and was now the proud owner of a silver charm bracelet (from which dangled the Princesses of Light, but it had been on sale — and he knew Luxord would flip over Alice, seeing as how the Queen of Hearts was a close, _personal_ friend of his). He'd also picked up enameled nail clippers for Demyx, along with a hamster ball for XVII, as the little squeaker had recently started complaining about the lack of proper exercise equipment available for a Nobody his size.

Currently they were looking at furniture; a single night spent on the floor of Demyx's room had convinced **all** involved of the immediate need for bunk beds (or as Luxord had been happy to point out, _one_ California King waterbed, after which he was slapped by Demyx, scorned by Roxas, and threatened with castration by Axel — seconded by Roxas and nearly carried out by a traumatized water form. Luxord quickly changed his vote to bunk beds). Axel favored bleached oak, while Roxas insisted on utilitarian metal frames, since they were less flammable (though not immune to the redhead's temper) than the prettier, varnished wood beds.

They argued amicably (meaning only one Keyblade was drawn, and the section of melted linoleum flooring was barely worth noticing) while sales staff watched them through security cameras. It was during a lull in their discussion (for they'd both gotten thirsty, and cola-cherry slushes were something they both could agree on) that they heard a deep, valley-ish voice that was disturbingly familiar.

"Yeah, I'm talkin' to you, ya moron! Buy a stupid bar before I jam it up your—"

"Xigbar!" Roxas called out, distracting the man from his quivering victim. (Axel had remained quiet, and was a tad disappointed that his roomie had interrupted, for he'd always wondered _how_ Xigbar would carry out his threats, when the man had often bragged he couldn't be paid enough to touch another man's—)

"Little dude!" Xigbar dropped the crushed _Delite_ bar back into its box and enveloped the blond boy in a trinket-crushing hug. "Imagine running into you here. And Axel, my man." He lifted his arm to start the secret Organization handshake, then sighed as the other two black-coated shoppers stuffed their hands into their pockets to avoid the high five (and being pragmatic — as well as used to such actions — he only pouted for the next minute or so). "Whoa, it's like a mini-Organization reunion. This calls for some havoc!" He snapped his fingers, but the leather of his gloves must have been worn too thin, for instead of a crowd of Dusks appearing he was swarmed with Rare Truffles bearing vast quantities of mystery goo.

"I'd like to say that was unexpected — but that's the third time this month." Axel shoveled syrupy ice into his mouth and munched. "Gotta face facts, Xiggy; you're not very good at summoning.

"My summoning is _perfect_," the scarred man sneered as he attempted to shoot the Truffles away from his (highly personal) personal space. (The silly things, pleased with the attention, kept floating back down and bestowing more mystery goo, which made Xigbar angrier ((not to mention gooey-er)), which made his streaking lasers faster, which delighted the Truffles to no end.) "It's the Snipers plotting against me, I tell ya."

Feeling — if not sorry for Xigbar, then terribly embarrassed to be caught in his company — Roxas cast Magnet, offending the Truffles and causing them to disperse. "It's not just the Snipers," he mumbled, doing his best to scrape iridescent goo off the bottom of his sneaker. "It's Xaldin, and Xemnas, and XVII is furious you taped over his Goof Troop marathon, and… err…" Scratching at his spiked hair, he blushed (for he'd been about to admit that he wouldn't mind some payback himself, ever since the graying man had stolen the lead in their ballet class's production of _Romeo and Juliet_; **he** would have fit the skirted costume leotard without the horrendous modifications currently bringing the seamstress to tears). "That is… What brings you to Traverse Town?"

"It's this fundraising thing, you know?" He pulled off his eye patch to wipe away a stray tear (then replaced it, upside down, over the bridge of his nose, 'cause he was a trendsetter — for the fashion impaired). "Xaldin's already flooded the city; the Shadows ran when they saw me coming with the box. Cowards," he sniffed, and pulled out his monogrammed hanky to dab at his reddened eyes. "So I wound up here — but haven't been able to sell a single bar. It's a conspiracy! Everyone wants me to fail! They _all_ want to be II! …Maybe even you, little dude…" he added, stepping away while taking a quick look behind his back (for backstabbers; back _rubbers_ on the other hand, were always welcome, as his shoulders tended to knot up every time he suffered a bout of uncontrolled paranoia).

"Oh, please." Tossing his empty cup into the gutter ('cause the trashcan was _all_ the way over on the other side of the street, and the street was bubbling away underneath its coating of mystery goo), Axel reached out and flipped Xigbar's patch back over his right eye. "As _if_ Roxas would want to be Xemnas' second. How many times do you have to fetch that man hazelnut lattes during the day?"

"Well, yeah; _**that**_ part sucks." He picked up the loathed box of fundraising bars and balanced it on top of his head. "Come to think of it — _everything_ involved with being II sucks. Haven't even had time to properly snipe anynobody lately. Man, I _hate_ existing…" He blew his nose, then tucked his hanky securely in to the pocket of a passing hyperactive ninja. He _would_ have tucked it into her companion's pocket, but he wouldn't have stood a chance of fitting his hand underneath the skin-tight leather of the brunet's pants. "Yo, dude and dudette! Wanna buy a candy bar?"

Xigbar trailed after the pair, spurred on by their comments of 'Get lost' and 'Whacko' and a soft, almost unheard '…Whatever'. (Almost unheard — but Xigbar _did_ hear it, and it raised his hopes that he'd be able to nag them into purchase; besides which, he was curious as to how his own chosen weapons would fair against a gunblade.)

"_That_ was a waste of time. I didn't think he'd ever leave." As a rule, Axel's attention span was exactly as long as the string of licorice he happened to be gnawing on at the time; since he currently had no licorice, his patience was likewise missing. He'd never considered it to be much of a virtue, anyway. Virtue, in his opinion, was highly overrated — and had something to do with not tripping Demyx when he was carrying bowls of piping hot minestrone. Steaming bowls of chicken noodle were fair game; _someone_ had to toughen the kid up. "Look, Roxas, there's something I wanted to buy, but we've gotta be heading back soon or we'll be late for that thing of Luxord's. Why don't you go pick out the beds, and we'll meet back up at the tramp fountain."

"…O-kay." The blond crossed his arms — but that made it difficult for him to sip his slushy, so he uncrossed them as nonchalantly as he could (which wasn't very, since his sleeve got snagged on the points of his cool crossed pendant). "You're giving in on the beds, just like that?"

"Yep." Axel gave a little skip, then pinched his roomie's cheek (we'll just place our hands over our eyes, 'cause while we'd _like_ to believe this was a perfectly innocuous gesture, this _is_ Axel — and we aren't the kind of people who _enjoy_ watching that type of thing… right? Hello? Oh, fine, you don't have to cover your eyes…) before slinging a companionable arm over his shoulder. "You're just so gosh darn _cute_ how can I say no? Besides, it doesn't matter if you choose porcelain, or brass; heck, if they've got wrought iron, go for it. I _like_ a challenge!"

"Fine." Sighing, Roxas slid out from underneath his friend's arm (while elbowing him in the side and pouring what remained of his slushy down the front of his coat, because he despised the word cute — even if it was accurate). "Gimme the card."

"No can do; like I said, there's something I wanna pick up — and if I carried around munny, in a few weeks I wouldn't be able to zip my pants." He flashed the platinum card, then tucked it up his sleeve. (Xemnas had taught him the trick, but unlike their Superior, Axel kept track of what went where, and seldom pulled out his antibacterial hand wipes when what he needed was his permanent magic marker.) "You've seen the number: Got it memorized?"

"No… but I've got a rub of it. Go, shop, have fun, see if I care." He was pouting, and knew he was pouting, but couldn't bring himself to stop — even if it meant more pinched cheeks. With a glare (that was cute) and a stomp of his sneakered (and goo-covered, but still cute) foot he waved Axel off and walked back into the furniture store, where he was promptly swamped by the sales staff (a gaggle of girls drawn by his incredibly cute pout).

He looked back over the beds (porcelain and brass and heavy, black wrought iron shaped into realistic petunias being uprooted by gophers) and debated the merits of each with the sales staff (while swatting away their grasping fingers; being pinched by nails that long _hurt_, no matter what tasteful color they were painted) before deciding on two simple pine bunk beds. Axel would reduce them to ashes before the week was out — but they were cheap, and better yet, the delivery charge included installation (a blessing, since they've not yet been able to figure out how to unfold their TV trays, let alone their cardboard dresser).

The manager had to be called, though, when it came time to pay; there was some question as to the validity of the card number, not to mention the validity of Roxas himself.

"I've told you," he groaned, pulling a fistful of hair in frustration (it would be nice to think he's tugging at his own golden locks — but he's not saying 'ouch' so we'll have to assume he's got a death grip on the manager's dreads), "I don't have ID because I'm a Nobody, and Nobodies don't really exist until the NBCC builds their Proof. Look, if I don't get those beds…" his bottom lip trembled — and one of the quicker sales girls got in a quick pinch before he could push her away, "…Uncle DiZ will be upset. And…" A gulp, and a quick swipe at his teary eyes. "And when he's upset — he's…" His voice lowered to a whisper. "He's mean."

"Oh, you poor dear!" The manager had no recourse but to sell Roxas the beds, as the sales staff had no recourse but to coo and ply the young man with cookies and indecent propositions. "Just sign here, and here, and we'll take care of the rest. Where do you need your cheap, inferior bunk beds delivered?"

Scrawling out a shaky _Riku_ the blond thoughtfully tilted his head. "Umm, drat. It used to be the Castle That's Yet to Be, but Saïx changed it last night to, err…" With a shudder, he recalled the (one exclamation point short of a rant) lecture the blue-haired man had subjected them to, complete with scorched valentine's hearts as evidence of their guilt. "I think it's the Castle That's Never Gonna Be if Axel Keeps Setting it on Fire You Miscreants."

"What — an unusual address."

"You think that's bad? A few months ago it was That Bulldozed Lot That I Shall Turn into A Monument Commemorating My Terrific-ness and it Shall Float Above the City So That I May Escape Property Taxes." Roxas took a deep breath, and pocketed the manager's limited edition glow-in-the-dark Oogie pen. "_That_ was a pain fitting on address labels."

"Hey, that's nothing compared to our first castle that, uh, burned down…" Axel coughed into his fist, then gently nudged Roxas. "Not that I'd know anything about that, ah… Are we done here, or what?"

"I guess." Roxas folded up the sales receipt (into a paper airplane that when launched circled the room four times before coming to rest in the manager's dreads). "I thought we were meeting up by the fountain."

"You took too long. I went ahead and dropped your gift off in the room."

"You — bought me a present?" Roxas' hands were clasped in front of him and his pretty pretty blue eyes sparkled with… erm… It looks like heartfelt emotion, but that can't be right; we'll blame the overhead halogen lights and neatly sidestep the issue. (Not as sure what to blame for the sudden downfall of sakura petals; the sales staff is delighted — and even the manager is prancing about in the softly scented pink blizzard.) "That's — thoughtful of you."

"Isn't it?" Pulling Roxas away from the counter, Axel opened a (not nearly as dark and scary when inundated with cherry blossoms) portal, and together they stepped through.

**interlude: Stage I  
**_one love that has possessed me _

He sits in his chair (for his throne is not yet gem-encrusted, and the chair is comfy with its threadbare cushion in a way the soon-to-be diamond covered seat of his throne will never be) and stares at his reflection — perturbed.

"Mirror, mirror in my hand: Who's the fairest in the land?"

"That depends on which land you happen to be in," the mirror answers, the green-hued face rippling over the silvered surface both smug and anxious. "But _here_ you're the bees knees, oh pretty and utterly fabulous one. Have you been working on your tan?"

"Hmph." Xemnas taps his (perfectly manicured and glossily buffed) nails against the armrest. "I think — I like flattery. Yes. From now on, all must flatter me. So be it." The Sorcerer taking dictation in the corner flinches, then creeps from the room to inform the rest of the castle staff of the new, annoying edict. "Ah, mirror, it is good to be I. Alas, only half of my Organization have paid their dues. However am I to afford my expensive candied violet habit if they do not pay?"

The mirror is baffled. "Err…"

"Your Superi… tch. Your Excell… ehn, your High… feh. Xemnas, sir!" XVII jumps out from behind (dearly departed but not sorely missed) Marluxia's chair, from where he'd been spying on the silver haired man's primping and/or sneaking a nap. "I know the fundraising bars have been a bit of a disappointment, but I've got another idea. A better idea!"

"Indeed." Xemnas puts away the mirror (up the wrong sleeve, so that the next time he reaches for it he'll end up with a handful of misplaced chicken soft tacos) and leans forward in interest. "Tell me more, nameless Nobody. But first — flattery. It's the law, you know."

XVII twitches, and scratches one of his large, round ears as he tries to think of a suitable compliment. "You, uh, have excellent posture?"

"Yes! Yes I do. Very perceptive of you, my minion. Now tell me this new scheme of yours…"

**return to Stage III  
**_i fell into a ring of fire _

"AXEL!" Demyx was standing outside of his room, likely for the sole purpose of catching Axel the moment he returned to the castle (which he hadn't quite managed, since the redhead's already been to the kitchen for a nice pineapple and ham grinder; there, on his chin, is a smear of marinara as proof). "What were you thinking?"

"Huh?"

"My room! You put — that **thing** — in my room!" The musician was close to rage (and which wise guy thought it would be beneficial to give the water forms semi-automatics?) and doing his best to express his concerns in a calm, collected manner; it would have worked, had it been anyone other than Axel. "My Berber carpet! My custom Venetian blinds, ruined! Everything's ruined… And you're gonna pay!"

"Hey hey hey, that's _our_ room now, D; I was just trying t' bring a little class into your pathetic, poser half-life!"

Unable to restrain his inquisitive nature, Roxas peeked into the room — and shrieked. Stumbling back, he tripped over his long coat and crashed into the shouting men, bringing all three of them down into one struggling, uniformly black (with restrained silver accents) heap. "…Axel, _what_ exactly is that?" he asked quietly from his position at the top of the pile.

"Your present!" Axel grinned, and wriggled until he was comfortable, ignoring the pained groans coming from Demyx (around a mouthful of brilliant red hair that smelled disturbingly of strawberries and vanilla ice cream). "Promised you a lava lamp, didn't I?"

Within the shambles of Demyx's room, Volcanic Lord began munching on the maple display case housing Luxord's vintage postcard collection, little Fiery Globes tumbling about its feet, sampling the legs of the dining room table.

**end Stage III **

Xigbar: Newly promoted II of the Organization, he has a hard time convincing folks he's one bad mutha due to his unshakeable valley accent. He's affected an eye patch — unsuccessfully — to bolster his (non) threatening image. Currently he's considered dying his graying hair to a more immature color, since absolutely _no_one finds an aging, wrinkled valley-_dude_ the least bit scary. Being II has made him paranoid — as Xaldin has been pinning death threats to his Organization locker with deeply embedded lances. It's not the lances that frighten Xigbar, it's the Xs and Os the letters are signed with that give him the willies.

**advance to Stage V  
**_know when to walk away and know when to run _

**End Notes:** _Mmm, just wanted to fling out a thank you to all the wunnerful folks who've reviewed _:)_ They make me all glowy and wot. I'd like more -- then I'd be glowier. But I'm afraid I shan't get any more, 'cause I have a feeling the fic's creeping into territory that tends t' make readers shy off. :sniffles: T'was nice while it lasted. I'm having fun writing, at least. _o.o_ Anyways, I'm taking suggestions for what the Organization's favorite baked goods are. Somewhere along the way I got it into my head that Luxord prefers Louisiana crunch cake, but I could be wrong_ **:D**


	5. Stage V, Stage Right, Stage V

**Disorganization  
****Stage V  
**_know when to walk away and know when to run_

Luxord gambled with a passion that could easily pass for love. Since we know that a Nobody is incapable of love though, that can't be the case. Love's out — and in its place is something amazingly similar… something the Organization fondly refers to as voxel when they're drunk and waxing nostalgic (along with their legs, and in Xaldin's case just about everything _except_ his sideburns including his back, his bum, and his big toes). Voxel, and exath, and xyjo; pseudo emotions that work _just_ as well as the real thing for pseudo beings that have never _quite_ been in touch with reality (or their inner selves, those traitors, off celebrating at End of the World while _they_ do the dirty work of world domination and laundry). So. Luxord had great voxel for games of chance; cards, dice, slots, chocobo racing — he's lost gil on every one he's tried. After all, he might voxel his chosen vice to pieces, but that doesn't mean Lady Luck voxels him back.

Tonight the entire Organization is gathered — or will be, as a goodly (or evilly, we don't know) number of them are running late (or in Xigbar's case, just running, _away_ from a dissatisfied _Delite_ customer and his more-dangerous-than-it-looks Revolver) — to partake in the spectacle that is Luxord's pride and xyjo: Monte Carlo Night!

Don't look at me; that's what the huge hand-painted banner says as you walk into the room; it's printed at the top of the programs the Creep(i)er hands you at the door; it's what Luxord shouts in your ear as he gives you a hearty pat on the back and a picking of your pocket for buy-in. How he learned of Monte-Carlo — having never visited Monaco — is up for debate, but he's running a betting pool, and he's already taken 'Stayed at the hotel in Vegas' along with 'He's a huge Grace Kelly fan' and 'Xemnas suggested it'. He's bound to win the pool; he's the only one who's entered it; the rest of the Nobodies figure their odds are better tossing their gil out of the open windows and waiting for flying elephants to return it (at 8:1 odds, no less; Dumbo's been hanging around begging peanuts from XVII).

Xemnas had been the first to arrive (before Luxord, before the Nobodies working the tables, before the room was _built_ so he could have a word with the NBCC about the door to the Organization's boardroom disappearing while he'd been inside installing hydraulic lifts on his chair) and he'd been ensconced at the craps table ever since. He was current roller — and since every roll ended with one die showing a single dot and the other die disappearing completely (presumably to the same place his door was currently calling home; also presumably they'd found his long lost mittens in which he could summon fried chicken and biscuits instead of Nobodies and Heartless; _presuming_ has too much in common with _assuming_, and you know what's said about **_that_**) the Gambler working the table had no choice but to pay off both pass and don't pass bets.

Saïx, demurely glittered and increasingly homicidal, had been drafted as a cocktail waitress to keep their Superior well plied with drinks. It's not certain which aspects of his new duty bothered him the most: the skimpy, long john baring uniform, or the Shirley Temples he'd been delivering without fail with each toss of the malfunctioning dice. Together the indignities would have been bearable, if only Xemnas would stop batting his lashes when asking for extra cherries.

Xaldin sat at the roulette wheel, a small stack of powder blue chips in front of him and a leaded crystal bowl of beer nuts to the side, with a half-empty (nothing is _ever_ half-full for him) wine cooler clenched in his hand — its Apple Passion label conveniently facing his palm. He'd watch the wheel spin, and the ball land, and the croupier place the dolly (a good likeness of the dog from… no, wait… it _is_ the dog from Demyx's deluxe Monopoly board) on the winning number — and no chips exchanged hands, 'cause Xaldin refused to place a bet, and he'd scared off XVII some time ago when he'd offered the smallest Organization member an adorable Darkside Peeps.

Walking the perimeter of the room, Luxord basked in his exalted position of pit boss. Eventually one of his fellow ('cause Larxene was _gone_ with a poof and a whine, and wasn't even dust in the wind, though she _might_ have been the sparkle in II's eye) Organization chums would lose, and lose big, and when they did _he'd_ be able to pay his dues to the Superior (since the vain twat had eventually decided he _loathed_ the soldier earrings, and wanted the ((identical but supposedly sexier)) slayer earrings instead). He refused to dwell on the fact that with each hand of blackjack he played and lost, the deeper in debt he dug himself — to XVII, who seemed to have made the transition from Somebody to Nobody with his bank account (and worlds-wide corporation) intact.

Shaking his head as yet another die went missing from the craps table, Luxord made his way to the entrance of his modest casino, a (non)heartfelt grin exposing his pearly whites. His three roommates (and, if his plans for tonight succeeded, bedmates — though the whole single twin mattress issue would require impressive feats of flexibility; he had to take advantage of the situation _before_ the wretched bunk beds were delivered, remember) had finally arrived. He pushed the Creep(i)er aside, and bowed extravagantly, and noticed that the three men (one man, two boys, but he wants their money, so he needs to gloss over their underaged gambling) were both soaked to the skin _and_ covered in soot.

"Having fun without me, hmm?" he asked petulantly, ushering them in.

"Uh…" Roxas was incapable of lying, but he was also incapable of explaining recent chaotic events coherently. "There was a Heartless, and a couple of water forms took a liking to it, which was just as well since the room was on fire…" He pulled his coat away from his chest with a wet, suction-y sound. "It's out now, the fire _and_ the Heartless — but the room's totaled. Dusks are busy cleaning it, but tonight we're either sleeping in the hall, or breaking into Vexen's old room to snooze."

"Ah, that faithful stand-by, the hall!" Roxas' explanation hadn't made much sense, but Luxord understood how things tended to slip out of control around Axel — so he does his best to forgive. (Forgive, not forget, folks. One day he'll bill Axel for all the wonderful mementos the man's destroyed, and when he does, Axel's going to shrug regretfully before they duel: Aftershave at fifty paces.) "How marvelous, and lucky for you, since all your belongings were still stacked outside… Never mind. Forget your worries, and try your hand at a game of chance."

The threesome settled down for a long night of Pai Gow poker (Axel demanded the position of banker, then refused to relinquish it — a situation that was eventually resolved when he promised to increase the house's commission ((read: Luxord's profit, and wasn't he overjoyed at the prospect of an extra five percent? Ssh, don't tell him they're playing for pretzel sticks, it'll _shatter_ that strange organ beating away in his chest in lieu of a heart)) and to properly dispose of their cocktail napkins once they were done playing). Not a one of them completely understood the rules for the game (Roxas inherently mistrusted the Joker, Demyx couldn't wrap his mind around two separate hands, and Axel — well, Axel couldn't see what was all that straight about a flush with two guys in it) but they had fun playing, even if they did eventually degenerate into tiddlywinks.

Xigbar had wandered in, his hair in cornrows and his patch dazzling with rhinestones and blinking LEDs cannibalized from his Cherished Teddies pin. He was irresistibly drawn to the roulette table (I kid you not; do you **_think_** he wants to be there with Xaldin? **_No_** one likes Xaldin: I rest my case) and he was soon placing a plethora of wagers with his lilac colored chips. It didn't take him long to notice that his rival wasn't playing (or eating his beer nuts) — and it was throwing off his mojo.

"Is there a problem, Huggybear?" Luxord asked, watching in mild amusement as II and III tried (without much success, granted, but surely their enthusiasm makes up for their mounting failures) to strangle each other. "It's unlike you to be so — direct."

"Man's not betting," Xigbar grouched, releasing his hold (both on Xaldin's neck and the neck of his Apple Passion wine cooler; three guesses as to which he was more reluctant to relinquish) and flicking peanut skins off his bedazzled and bejangled coat. "I told him to put out or get out."

"And I told him I wasn't one of his cheap floozies."

"It wasn't a come on!" Xigbar shivered at the thought, and scooted to the far side of the table (dragging the beer nuts with him, the neglected darlings). "At least, I'm fairly certain… That is to say…" He was starting to regret the piña coladas he'd drank with the ninja babe (but not yet the pineapple mai tai he'd shared with her companion) before he'd arrived. "Okay, I guess it was a _little_ suggestive…" He squinched his fingers together, and smirked. "But no more so than your _lovely_ death threat post scripts. Hugs and kisses, _really_, Xally."

Two spears were in his hands, three were floating erratically behind him, and one had made a wrong turn, ending up in the broom closet (where XVII's mop cornered it, pounced, and extracted promises that wouldn't last past the morning after). "You — idiot!" Xaldin could feel all his sadness, his regret, his ravenous need for spice gum drops transmute into (kinda tingly and not altogether unpleasant) anger. "Those were emoticons! Of you knocked silly! See?" Pulling out his permanent magic marker (gee, there's a lot of those floating around…) he scribbled on the green felt of the roulette table. "XoX — black eyes and stupid, surprised mouth…"

Luxord chuckled (and added the cost of the table to Xaldin's bill). "Looks like hugs and kisses to me."

"That's it! No more Mr. Nice Savage Nymph."

"Umm…" Xigbar tapped his index finger against Xaldin's nametag. "Sorry to break it to you, dude, but you're the Whirlwind Lancer. Not that you _couldn't_ be the Savage Nymph, I suppose; position's up for grabs, and I'm sure you'll do a better job of it than Larxene—"

"Urgh!" His lips pulled back in a feral snarl, Xaldin placed all of his chips (meaning both the powder blue ones and the reduced fat Doritos ones) on red 3. "I hate you all!"

"Exath us all," Luxord corrected mildly, covering the zeros while Xigbar scootched further away from them both (incidentally scootching himself _closer_ to the croupier, who eyed him speculatively ((mean feat, with both eyes covered by her hat)) while calling out 'No more bets'). "Doesn't anybody read their _Newly Nobody_ guidebook?"

Meanwhile, at the Pai Gow table, Roxas had managed to win (and eat) the entire bag of pretzel sticks, leaving them nothing to bet with. (Just because he doesn't trust the Joker doesn't mean he can't use the card to best advantage.) They were preparing to leave when Axel reminded them that they had nowhere to go but the hallway, and that the casino was warm, and that pretzel sticks — no matter how deliciously salty — weren't the only things that could be wagered on a hand of poker.

"Tell you what," the redhead leaned over the table, shuffling the cards and only dropping a few to the floor. "I win this hand — and that mullet of yours goes, D."

Demyx covered his cherished 'do with his hands (but didn't summon water forms, for they were recovering from their short-lived ((and _very_ steamy)) infatuation with the lava lamp). "It's a mohawk!"

"It's a fauxhawk," Roxas corrected with a yawn, pillowing his head in his arms (and wrinkling his nose at the smell of soot overpowering the Obsession for Men he'd borrowed from Axel).

"Psh. Semantics. It's ugly, is what it is."

"That's not what you said when you talked me into it at the stylist's." Demyx slapped the top of the table (and kicked the taller man vindictively underneath the table). "Awright. I'm in. And if I win…" A bedraggled, wispy water form appeared to cheer him on. "If I win, I got two words for you: Liberty spikes."

"Ouch. Tough, but fair." Axel dealt while Demyx gnawed on his fingernails and Roxas daydreamed he was the beautiful queen of a quaint little country called Baron.

There in Luxord's casino, at the exact same moment (which isn't true but sounds ever so much better than a minute thirty five seconds apart) the croupier called out 'Zero' as Demyx triumphantly crowed, "Push!"

**exit: Stage Right  
**_i'm so afraid of the gift you give me_

She's in her room drawing because (a) DiZ is a slave driver and (b) she _really_ wants to help Sora and (c) there's really nothing else to do in the Mansion besides draw doodlesand tease Riku. So she's drawing (though she's using crayons, so technically she's _coloring_; no one's ever bothered to correct the poor girl's vocabulary, even when she calls the neighborhood boys sneaking peeps through her bathroom window charming scallywags instead of filthy perverts) and humming _The Colors of the Wind _(though it just doesn't sound the same without Demyx for backup).

Her drawing, and humming (and tweaking of Sora's memories into strange fanciful shapes that'll likely leave him believing he's an under-baked macadamia nut cookie when he finally awakens) is interrupted by loud knocking. She tries to ignore it (by humming louder, and adding percussion by way of her tapping feet) to no avail. With a sigh and a hurried scribble of Donald plucked bald and roasted she walks down the stairs and answers the door.

'Ah, Lady!' the Dusk at the door burbles and bows before darting past her into the dining room. 'I have a gift for you. A most precious gift.'

"Really?" Naminé squeals with delight and claps her hands (and breaks her fistful of crayons). "How wonderful! Who's it from?"

'The fire-bright Liege. Lady, do you accept? Do you accept this most rare and magnificent gift?'

"Yes, of course." She's never gotten a present before, not that she can remember, and so it's with eager eyes that she watches the Dusk portal out and something round, loud, and voraciously hungry portal in. It lands on the table, cracking the hard wood in half and sending it crashing to the floor. She raises one slim (crayon toting) hand to block out the rising glare — and begins to frown. "Oh dear. A lava lamp."

With a shrug and a flip of her long, blonde hair she leaves the dining room, singing out as she passes the library, "Riku! Delivery for you downstairs!"

**return to Stage V  
**_your mouth should be clamped shut, your tongue tied firmly down_

The roulette table had been reduced to splinters and a rainbow of scattered chips. At some point Xaldin had tackled Xigbar; they remained on the floor struggling — and we'll keep our fingers crossed that they're engaged in a fight to the death, and not pursuing other avenues of easing hostilities. The Pai Gow table is nothing more than smoking rubble, and Axel and Demyx are both soaking wet _and_ covered in soot — but since they entered the casino in that condition, we may never know what's happened between them. Roxas had somehow managed to fall asleep during the altercation (and throaty moans of 'Oh, Cecil' can be heard if you listen closely enough), and Luxord was sitting forlornly on the carpet. Be a dear, and ignore his tears, unlike Saïx with his antique (but serviceable) camcorder and devious plans of blackmail in the future.

"What an entertaining evening," Xemnas said, gathering up his winnings and maraschino cherry stems. "We must do this again some time." He nodded regally and made his way to the entrance, pausing gracefully before it (if not for a stumble over a moaning, laser-fried Gambler; you could hardly notice the shriek of agony — although the smell's a bit harder to overlook) until he was sure he had everyone's attention. "And since none of you have sold your quota of _Delite_ bars…" The silence in the room was ominous — if you discounted Luxord's weeping, which was just sorta icing on the cake. "I expect all of you to be outside Memory's Skyscraper at sunrise tomorrow. And bring," he laughed deeply, but still not convincingly, though he'd been practicing it for hours, "your trinkety knick-knacks."

**end Stage V**

Xaldin: former number II of the Organization, current number III due to an unfortunate incident involving him clapping at the same time the Superior took a rather (strike through amusing, replace it with something less likely to result in demotion) spectacular pratfall, Xaldin feeds his rage with the preservatives found in both junk and diet foods alike. Once the (Nobody equivalent of) best friend of Xigbar, he's waffling between despising the man for taking his place in the Organization or sending him a deluxe fruit basket in eternal gratitude. Unable to cope with the dilemma, he's signed a contract with Jelly Belly — and is eagerly waiting for the first truckload to arrive.

**return to stage II  
**_oh they're sortin' through what's left of you and me_

**End Notes:** _Reviews, I got beautiful, uplifting reviews, and now look at me! I'm glowier! So gawrsh durn glowy I kept waking myself up. Wow. That's the power of reviews, cheaper light source than electricity or kerosene. If you've got ficcie questions, I've got ficcie chatter. _Gogo-chan_, I gave your suggestion a lot of thought; ended up pulling recipes to see how much difference there is between sandies and shortbread versions (as far as I can tell, it's a matter of brown sugar, correct me if I'm wrong). Looking at the pictures -- I'm gonna go with shortbread. (Though Axel might still refer to them as sandies.) Thank you! Anyone else with suggestions?_

_Fic-wise, things seem to be getting a tad more serious, mostly 'cause I have serious future fic in mind. _O.O_ However, it's hard t' present anything serious when Xemnas keeps listening to XVII's money-making schemes… I s'pose once I get the silly out of my system, I'll start crackin' on the serious._


	6. Stage II :Þ

**Disorganization  
Stage II**  
_oh they're sortin' through what's left of you and me_

"This sucks. And not in _any_ way that could remotely be construed as good, you know? There is no bright side. Okay, yeah, there's no _bright_ in the city, period, 'cause even the overuse of neon only serves to emphasize how dark and dismal and indicative of the state of our tortured souls this pit of nightmare is — but you know what I mean." Demyx shifted the Icy Cube further along his jaw, ignoring the frigid water dripping down his neck to soak into the dove-gray sweater (knitted by Zexion, and _how_ that man could wield duel crochet hooks; the Organization will never be the same — for they'll be shabbily dressed in next to no time without the Hand-crafted Cloaked Schemer to make them fuzzy-warm comfort clothes). "I should be in my room resting in bed… Oh, _that's_ right," he gave a lukewarm (but growing cooler) glare to the red haired man standing one table away, "you _burned down my room_ and the bunk beds won't be delivered until — pht, whenever. Regardless, I should be sleeping but instead I'm out here, in pain… You have a hell of a left hook, Axel. Do you have any idea how much it hurts to natter on and on like this? I hope you appreciate all I do for you; no point in putting the sun catchers up front, there isn't any _sun_ within two Worlds' distance—"

"What was Xemnas thinking?" Roxas was sitting (precariously) in a chair short one leg and missing a third of its seat. He'd been sitting there for what seemed like hours (and the cuckoo clock that could tick but not tock agreed with his assessment, but the brightly painted bird was jumping out and announcing the hour every few minutes, so there's a chance that the clock ((and by watching it, Roxas)) was running a smidge faster than the actual flow of time), rearranging the bric-a-brac cluttering his table to no purpose. "There's nobody but Nobodies around here, and nobody but _nobody_ is stupid enough to buy this crap."

"Treasures," Axel corrected, picking up a chipped, stained glass night light to dust with a damp paper towel. "These are the hidden, forbidden treasures of the Organization. A thousand years from now archeologists are going to uncover—"

"The Organization's secret stash of tasteless crap." Getting to his feet, Roxas kicked the chair and watched in morbid fascination as it collapsed, crushing an inquisitive Shadow that had been emerging from the asphalt-paved street. "And it's not even **my** crap." He flicked a bobble headed chihuahua, setting off a flood of nods and demands for tacos. "I haven't been a Nobody long enough to collect crap. Not that I'd ever buy," he held out a black tee shirt stating in small orange letters '_You laugh now... But will you be laughing when I crawl out from under your bed _', "something like—"

"Dude! So that's where my shirt amscrayed." Xigbar hopped over his table and ran across the street, snatching the tee from the blond boy's hand. "I've been looking everywhere for this. Thanks!" With no further ado he stripped out of his monogrammed (HB — an un-birthday gift from Luxord) polo shirt and pulled on the tee (and we're all grateful for the speed in which he completed the change, 'cause the balloon-toting teddy bear tattooed over his not-actually-a-heart is frighteningly kawaii).

"You gotta pay for that," Demyx said — not because he cared, but because Xemnas had given them very specific instructions (Arial 10pt double-spaced, five pages long if you don't count the cover sheet), and giving away their clutter was at the top of the Under No Circumstances list.

"Oh, right. How about…" Xigbar grubbed through his fanny sack, and pulled out an assortment of fruit-scented novelty erasers. "We'll trade. Erasers for shirt. Fair enough for ya?"

"Not a chance of selling those, either, so yeah, toss them on the table." Roxas (having spent the night curled up in the hallway listening to Luxord sobbing in his sleep, Demyx snoring, and Axel muttering something about kneepads and Santa hats) wasn't in the best of moods, exacerbated by his Wake Up Grumpy mug going missing (and currently for sale over at Saïx's table) thereby depriving him of his morning dose of fortifying cocoa. "Lesse, offensive tee shirts, fruity erasers, sun catchers featuring our most despised enemies… Who brought those, anyway?"

Axel sniffed and carefully placed the night light down where it would catch the glow of the neon signs just _so_. "There you go, being all judgmental; it's not like I can just walk into a store and buy a stained glass panel depicting scenes of unrivaled horror. Lately all they've been getting in are hummingbirds and roses — which were much more Marluxia's thing, I know, but beggars — or in this case, shoplifters — can't be choosers." He nudged a warm vanilla-scented candle an inch to the left, and admired the way his wares reflected the light. "Thousands of little fires," he said in deep-seated satisfaction, "burning all for me."

Dropping the Icy Cube to shatter on the pavement, Demyx leaned forward to admire the view. "That's nice. Pity the Neoshadows despise light; are you trying to drive our customers away?"

"Yes."

"Glad to know we're on the same wavelength. Scary, yet oddly reassuring." Demyx raised his arms and bent his knees as water fountained theatrically around him — then casually reached down and pulled his sitar out from underneath the table, the frothing water falling back to the ground dispiritedly before running into the gutter. "Roxas has a point: He hasn't been around long enough to've collected whatnots and rattletraps, you **burned** all of my possessions, and all _you've_ bothered to save over your illustrious career are shiny glass knickknacks and vintage cookie cutters. Between the three of us there's not enough junk to fill a garbage bag, so why do we have to participate in the rummage sale? I mean, we already paid our dues! What more does Xemnas want?"

"He's testing us, D-dude." Admiring his reflection in a convenient puddle (they congregate around Demyx, causing all sorts of rude jokes) Xigbar gave himself a thumb's up. "After those do-gooder brats took out a third of the Organization over at Châteaux Oblivion the boss man wants to make sure we're up t' snuff. If we can survive the humiliation of having our personal foibles picked through by bargain hunters, he'll know we have what it takes to, umm…" He scratched his (braided and beaded because he'd been too ((hung-over)) busy this morning to take them out) head, and his visible eye blinked in startlement. "What _are_ we supposed to be doing? As long as, uh, You Know Who is napping…" he studiously avoided looking at Roxas, who in turn was studiously avoiding the Samurai that had strolled over to inquire about the price of the broken Icy Cube.

"Voldemort?" Saïx (beyond bored and having already read his back issues of _Huge Honkin' Swords _back to front) had taken it upon himself to join their conversation — just in case he needed to put a stop to their gossiping. (When you're throwing a party, Saïx is the loser you never invite that shows up anyway — with the police, complaining about the noise. It's why the other Organization members send him invitations… with directions that ensure he winds up lost in Wonderland.)

"No… the **other** You Know Who. The one that's napping."

Saïx didn't like being confused. There are many things he doesn't like, and encountering any of them unexpectedly is likely to tick him off. (Just ask the White Rabbit; he's rotting in Wonderland, permanently late. His very important date eventually went home with Flopsy instead.) "Yeah. Voldemort."

"Ease up on him, Xiggy," VIII warned II, worried about his table full of highly breakable glass objets d'art. "You know he never got past the second book."

Xigbar yanked at his braids, took deep breaths, and yearned for nacho fries. "No, O oblivious one. I'm talking about He Who Must Not Be Named coz Roxas is standing right there, you yutz!"

"…Oh. Oh." The (dyed) blue haired man sniffed, his faux-feelings hurt. "You could have just said it was So—oww! You kicked me, Axel! You barbarian; you'll be punished for attacking someone of higher rank. I'm telling Xemnas!"

"When you're there, mind letting him know I finished writing '_I'll never, ever betray a mostly loyal flunky again_' twenty times on the door to Vexen's lab?" Axel smiled impishly as the candles illuminating his table flared, their flames dancing wickedly two inches above their wicks. "I tell ya — that was harsh. I _so_ learned my lesson. You do the crime, you do the time: All ten minutes of it."

"I _despise_ you." Turning around quickly (to hide his teary eyes, 'cause all he's ever _really_ wanted was a friend. Or a corndog. Without a heart to steer him in the right direction, it's hard to recognize the impulse, though with his digestion a friend would be less likely to turn on him) he walked off, stopping only at Xaldin's table to admire his Hostess collection (four decades past their non-expiration, and the Zingers were still squishy to the touch).

He'd been striving for a dignified departure but couldn't quite manage it with Demyx plucking a jaunty tune that Axel soon joined in on. "_And he throws an angry tantrum if he cannot have his way_…"

"Man, that guy is _such_ a spaz." Flinging his polo shirt over his shoulder, Xigbar tossed a few coins (whoops, no, they look more like foil-wrapped con… oh dear…) into the straw boater hat the musician had set out along with a sign reading _Support the Arts, Kill a Critic_. "Guess I'll be heading back to my table, looks like there's a dupe checking out the necklaces. Later dudes, little dude." He raised his hand for the secret Organization handshake, but no one returned his high five (since Demyx had segued into an instrumental piece originally penned for a banjo, Axel had yet to stopped laughing, and Roxas — well, Roxas had ignored the entire conversation like the good, clueless Keybearer he is).

"He has a customer?" Axel asked, a bit breathless from his giggle fit. "He's selling stationary and beaded jewelry; there's not a single Nobody in the city that would be interested in…" His eyes widened (and it's quite the feat, 'cause while he has _beautiful_ eyes they're rather narrow, and angled, and not really designed for going all round and confounded looking) and he barely managed to stop himself from diving underneath the table to hide. "It's Naminé; she's tracked me down."

"She's not the only one." Pushing up the sleeves of his Cashmere mock turtleneck sweater, Roxas prepared himself for battle (though what role pushing up his sleeves had in his preparations is hard to figure. Maybe he was just hot). "Looks like my mysterious adversary came with her."

Riku approached, the gauzy scarf that doubled as a blindfold currently tied around his forehead. With his fringed leather pants and baggy tie-dyed shirt, he looked far less deadly than during their previous encounter — and very much like a teenager exploring emerging hippie tendencies. "Hey." The silver haired boy raised a gloved hand in greeting (though it might have been friendlier without the bat-winged Keyblade in it). He glanced over the tables, but kept darting quick looks at the (not wearing heavy black coats 'cause it's casual Friday and muggy to boot) Organization members. "What's up?"

"Rummage sale." Nonchalantly Roxas pushed fruity erasers towards Riku. "For the everlasting glory of the Organization. Could I interest you in a Maleficent mug? Keeps hot liquid hot, and cold liquid — not as hot." He held it up so the taller boy could read the graphic.

"'_I'm wicked, what's your excuse?_'" Snorting, Riku took the mug and turned it over in his hands, examining it for chips. "She'd have loved this… But I'm more interested in the sun catchers, actually. Especially the Snow White one." He moved towards it (but kept the cup in his hands since it was apropos and amusing him to no end) but didn't pick it up. "Amazing; it's an _exact_ replica of Sora's mind."

"…Sora?" For some reason the name made Roxas feel all goosepimply and giddy.

"Yeah, he's—"

"Just some _loser_ friend of your mysterious adversary's that you don't need to concern yourself with!" Axel cut in (rather literally, as both bladed monstrosities he calls weapons are out and spinning, forcing the silver haired boy away from his wares). "And, ah," he grimaced sheepishly at Riku, "the similarity isn't a coincidence. Naminé designed them for me when she was staying with us, and I had the set made up because they'd make a bitchin' mobile to hang in front of the window… And why am I telling you this? You wanna buy it, or not?"

"Okay, okay!" Setting the mug down, Riku pulled out a (wee bit melted, but still edible) wad of munny. "How much? I can't _believe_ how expensive today's been. All I wanted was a rematch with Roxas, but Naminé talked me into getting her Suzy Qs, peridot earrings, another box of crayons, and now she's drooling over stationary… You guys are evil. Totally, unredeemably evil."

"We aim to please." After stuffing the sun catcher haphazardly into a plastic grocery bag, Axel prodded the oozing lump of munny into the _Toy Story_ lunchbox that was doubling as their cash drawer before handing over the purchase. "Actually, it's sorta nice t' hear. Xemnas always tells us we're totally, incompetently evil."

"He's one to talk." Roxas bumped against Demyx as he took back the coffee mug (but Demyx, singing wistfully, _'One dyin' and a buryin'_…' didn't notice; not the bump, not his audience of quietly crying Dusks, and not Luxord making off with his beloved straw boater hat). "How long has he been working on the Master Plan? At the rate he's going, our heart-shaped moon-thing is going to be a permanently kidney-shaped asteroid-thing."

"You know," Riku said, craning his neck to stare upwards, "that looks familiar…"

"You've probably seen it on a strategy guide." The stress of keeping two teenaged boys ignorant of particulars even Xaldin on a sugar high could figure out if given a chance (and an hour's lead-time) had Axel close to flaming out. "That's not what's important. You're here. And so's Roxas. Were you gonna fight, or what?"

"I dunno." The blond toyed with his key chains, then lifted his shoulders in a minimal shrug. "Wouldn't be worth the bother. He's weak."

"Ha!" Stung by the accusation, Riku looped his arm through the handles of the plastic bag before reaching into his pocket once more. "I've trained. I've faced the dark." He pulled out a square of Scharffen Berger 82 percent cacao extra dark chocolate, unwrapped it, and placed it in his mouth, sucking on it with evident delight. "This time, I can't lose."

"Huh." Unimpressed, Roxas pulled out the by now well-known (and well-feared by Shadows everywhere) box of _Delite_ bars (for Xemnas hadn't entirely given up on his first fundraising venture — mostly because XVII didn't believe in refunds). "That sure, are you? Then what about — this?"

Riku read the label of the bar thrust an inch away from his nose, and paled. (Well, as much as he could. He's already pretty pale; the poor dear's been away from his island paradise much too long. Donate to the Get Riku a Tan Fund; Ansem will thank you for it.) "…With _raisins_? They make them — with _raisins_?" Unable to withstand the sheer revulsion '_with raisins_' engendered, Riku fled, leaving behind the _Wicked_ mug he'd decided to buy, Naminé (who was ecstatic over her new straw boater hat), and his Soul Eater key chain (that Xigbar picked up and promptly sold to Luxord, who was always on the look-out for good luck charms.)

"Like I said," Roxas told Axel, dropping the bar back into the box before kicking it at the clustered Dusks, "not worth the bother."

"Heh. What does that tell us about Lexaeus, then?" Blowing out his candles, Axel gave his roomie a smug wink. "What do you say we call it a day? I'm in the mood for something spicy. Szechuan sound good to you?" Without waiting for a response, he grabbed the blond's hand and tugged him away from the table. "We can stop by Miz Maizy's after."

With a small quirk of his lips that could have been interpreted as a smile and a small tilt of his head that could have been a nod, Roxas allowed Axel to drag him off without complaint.

That is, _he_ didn't complain. Demyx, snapped out of his (depressing yet appealingly lyrical) thoughts when the box of _Delite_ bars smacked him, had plenty to say, starting with, "…Where's my hat? Guys? Where are you… _Naminé_? Why are you wearing my hat?"

With a sweet, tinkley laugh, Naminé held out her hand, displaying the foil-wrapped, urm, _not_coins Xigbar had left. "Are these yours?"

**end Stage II**

Riku: Master of the Soul Eater Keyblade, Riku's intimately acquainted with both Light and Dark (but prefers caramel when given the choice), finding ways to use both — though not without cost. (The toll on the Twilight path is a killer — and the monthly pass doesn't save you much.) Assigned by DiZ to bring Roxas to their secret laboratory deep under ground (DiZ loves the classics), Riku often confronts XIII but has yet to defeat him — or even actually fight him. Yet still he tries — poster boy for 'If at first you don't succeed' — because it's to help his _good friend_ Sora. He'll do _anything_ for Sora, _except_ choke down a _Delite_ bar… _with raisins_.

**advance to Stage III  
**_what's now pathetic, weak, and sad was once a human being_

**End Notes:** The Phony King of England — _lyrics by John Mercer, from_ Robin Hood, _where Alan-a-Dale was voiced by Roger Miller, which got Demyx a singin' _One Dyin' and a Buryin'. _Woo, got dizzy connecting the dots._

_Reviews! Sweet, charming reviews! _AnimeDutchess:_ Sadly, some seriousness (next part didn't want to go with the flow; it demanded down time) but the silly eventually comes back. _Gogo-chan: **:D** _Would you believe I was already considering ginger? Hee, run run as fast as you can… For some reason the scene tickles me senseless. Many many thank yous to you both for staying with the story and letting me know what you like (which sorta points the way to spots that aren't working as well). Thank yous to all kind reviewers for taking the time t' let me know I'm not the only one laughing. What can I say, I crack me up. Then again, I'm easily amused._


	7. Stage III, Stage I, Stage II, Stage III

**Disorganization  
****Stage III  
**_what's now pathetic, weak, and sad was once a human being_

In the center of the room there's a maelstrom. It would be easy to assume that the term was used metaphorically, for the room was filled with Dusks dervishly rushing through their tasks using Creepers transformed into brooms and dustpans and paintbrushes to speed their restoration efforts. Mixed in with them were Gamblers conscripted for the day to bring in the contents of one of Luxord's storage sheds (because, as X so eloquently put it, they needed more than the promise of bunk beds to make the room habitable once again, and, seeing as how he was the only one who'd retained ((or developed)) a discernible ((if only because it was over the top)) sense of style, it was his furniture they'd be spiffy-ing the room with) as well as deliverymen newly arrived from Traverse Town who were hesitantly debating where to set up the bunk beds (seeing as how the room was filled far beyond capacity with Dusks and Gamblers and furniture nouveau and wicked, swirling maelstrom).

That's right; the maelstrom wasn't some figurative bit of lyrical nonsense used to describe perfectly normal frenzied activity: It's real. There, in the center of the room occasionally sucking in an unlucky Dusk and flinging it out to crash against the newly ice blue walls is a whirlpool, a veritable vortex of frigid water spinning at frightful speeds and ludicrous directions (for no one has ever bothered to enforce the laws of physics in this World, which might explain why the tossed Dusks, instead of falling to the floor in a dazed heap of magic bubbles, instead stood — on the walls and in utter denial of gravity — to continue on in their work). And in the center of the maelstrom — dead center, dead calm eye of the waterspout — Demyx sat in meditative repose.

He didn't need his sitar; the water sang gentle accompaniment to his thoughts (and luckily drowned out the honky-tonk the Gamblers had turned on to enliven their task). He didn't — if he were being honest, and not a bit self-deluded — need the maelstrom, but it provided a quiet haven in what had — once upon a time, a long time ago — been _his_ room, and no one else's. He didn't need the bag of candy corn… really; no one _needs_ candy corn, but it sure brightens up a situation that otherwise shows every indication of spiraling out of control (maelstrom aside).

And what had Demyx so preoccupied that he didn't notice the Dusks grow bored of blank (even if they were a delightful shade of ice blue) walls and come to the decision to start painting a pastoral scene complete with snow-buried cabin and looming mountains that reached from floor to ceiling? It's hard to tell. (_Very_ hard; the last person to blab still wakes up every third Tuesday of the month in a cold sweat from nightmares of _Chim Chim Cher-ee_ sung with a Cockney accent perfect down to the glottal stops.) But it had little to do with somber contemplation over his meaningless non-existence, and _much_ to do with the anagram that served as his name (which he'd rather fudged, leaving out both the O and the L; if he'd gone with, say, Myxolde, the rest of the Organization would have figured it out in no time — and look at what happened to Relena… err… Larxene; the plethora of Heero jokes had turned a likeable-enough high-voltage electrician with a fondness for Wordsworth into, well, _Larxene_. He didn't want to take the chance). He liked puzzling out the other's names — though Saïx had threatened dire retribution (involving butterscotch pizzelles that didn't _sound_ particularly dire until a person realized it would be _Saïx_ baking them in his _Kiss My Grits_ apron) if he ever distributed the tribute he'd composed to Isa in iambic pentameter.

He was disturbed from his musing by Luxord's (Dolur's? Rould's? Or had X also been forced to obfuscate in order to hide a moniker like Hank? 'Cause Luxord struck him as a Hank — and not so much a Patrick) shout of, "Phone!" With a watery sigh (what else did you expect?) Demyx collapsed the maelstrom, drenching the bare floor (and the pants of the deliverymen who'd huddled protectively together in one sheltered corner while they tried to set up the beds).

Due to certain character flaws amongst the Organization (ranging from being homicidal maniacs up to ((or down to)) being total airheads — pick and choose) Demyx had been elected their official spokesperson (legacy of Rele… err… Larxene and her constant harping over gender-neutral titles) for his pleasant-when-not-whining voice, his mellow disposition, and his ability to _keep_ a phone without melting it, bashing it, or flushing it down the toilet. (That his was waterproof helped some, too.) He didn't _like_ taking calls — the bill collectors upset him, and the woman from the photography studio scared him spitless with her chirpy promises of capturing his soul on film. His soul was all he had left, and he'd been carded enough by Luxord to know that being immortalized in portraiture was as close to hell as a Nobody could come (short of being a Nobody) — but the rest of the group counted on him (to screen their calls and save them from the scary photographer lady), so he did his duty, and even passed on messages upon occasion.

He found the phone underneath a (blue and cream and coffee splattered) drop cloth and answered it with a harried, "Demyx, yo." He listened, phone tucked between his chin and his shoulder as he surveyed his room (and quailed before the mural that now sported a fantastic sunset and puffy clouds and puffier sheep that stared straight through him with beady, knowing eyes). "He's not here. No. **No**. Look, I realize… Yeah. Okay. I've _got_ it, yeesh. I'll let him know you called. You do know he can't call you back—" He pulled the phone away from his ear with a grimace as an outraged squawk shrilled through the speaker. "Well pardon me, but _our_ contract's local and we're not paying the toll on intergalactic… No kidding?" He sat down on an upended milk crate (all-purpose starving student furniture: Chair, dresser, and table all-in-one) as he attempted to absorb the news. "…I'll tell 'im. Uhuh. Bye."

Flipping the phone shut he tossed it to Luxord. "Fantastic. Check out the number, why don't you?" He swallowed a handful of candy corns without chewing — wishing they were Prozac.

"Surely it can't be that—" Luxord stared down at the screen and instantly envisioned himself on a beach sipping rum out of a coconut shell somewhere far, far away. "Oh. Oh dear. D, it's been a while since our last vacation; what do you say we let the Dusks finish up on their own, and we'll portal somewhere — that's not _here_. My treat. Better yet, we'll bring DiZ's card; it'll be _his_ treat."

"Sounds great. And your plan for escaping Xemnas when he comes after us with his compensatory glow sticks for missing that, that _thing_ he has planned?"

"We don't get caught?" Luxord slumped, the rings in his ears chiming and the leather of his pants creaking. "No, you're right; we have to attend. I've worked so hard on my speech…" Tugging at his beard, he tried to find a solution to their looming problem, but came up blank (unless you count his brainstorm of pushing the bunk beds together and removing their inner rails, so at least one person would be sharing his mattress and keeping his toes warm; the NBCC was ingenious when it came to building impressive chambers of intimidating size, but sucked at electrical wiring with Larxene gone, rendering his heated blankie into nothing more than a snuggly-soft throw).

"Right. We're stuck here, and we hafta deal." Demyx watched the Gamblers bring in a sofa bulging with overstuffed cushions and covered in embroidered daisies. "With flowers. And creepy sheep. This isn't my room, it's a daycare center," he complained, pushing a Dusk off a ladder where it had been stapling cutesy animal alphabet cards above a window overlooking Naught. "How old do they think I am?"

"You've been non-existent for two years, eleven months, twenty-nine days and six hours… Ah, but who's keeping track," he added hastily as the musician tore apart the _A is for Alpaca_ card in preparation of shoving it down his roommate's throat. "Age is irrelevant; it says so in the guidebook. You're only as young as you think you are…"

"Or as your co-workers treat you." Picking up cans of his chosen paint, Demyx began shoving them at the deliverymen standing in controlled terror by the recently completed beds. "You," he snarled at them, waving a primer-soaked roller-shaped Creeper towards the completed mural (rainbows and waterfalls and yellow-dressed chipmunks galore), "cover that up. You!" he smacked the nearest Dusks with the Creeper, pushing them towards the furniture-clogged doorway. "Out. And you," he threatened the Gamblers (who'd dropped the couch in an attempt to hide behind it) "are going to get that _hideous_ excuse for a loveseat out my sight, and in its place you're going to bring me a sofa-sleeper. And the sofa-sleeper **_shall not_** have **flowers**. Is that clear?"

Cowed, the room's occupants nodded, and quickly went about their assigned tasks (though not quietly. The deliverymen were a bit concerned about the truck they'd left parked outside in a No Loading zone — but they were more concerned with the crazed gleam in the sandy-blond's eyes).

**Interlude: Stage I  
**_i'm saving up and one day i will leave here_

"What am I doing wrong? Am I not setting a perfect example?" He looked for answers in his fogged mirror; in XVII's open, expressive face; in the tea leaves left at the bottom of his delicate china cup — but they remained mute (though only the cup had a good excuse, unless it was Chip; in that case, they were _all_ rude and unhelpful). "That can't be it. I'm always perfect." Xemnas covered his face behind one black gloved hand (for his red mittened hand was holding his mirror). "Tell me, my Kingdom Hearts: What more can I do?"

"Ah…" XVII fidgeted, and added another lump of sugar to his oolong tea. "You do know that's the disco ball you're talking to?"

"Is it?" Lowering his gloved hand, Xemnas squinted into the distance. "So it is. Strange, the way it sparkles _just_ like… Have I been wrong all this time? Instead of collecting hearts, should I have been collecting disco dancers? The _hearts_ of disco dancers?"

"Urk! I, I don't think so," the smallest Organization member answered, whiskers twitching nervously. "Those don't store too well, and the smell would draw flies."

"Hmm. Then tell me, little Nobody who's always hanging around but that I don't remember recruiting, why have my loyal subjects failed the simplest of missions? Why haven't they brought me munny enough to pay for my eyebrow threading? I do not understand how they expect me to lead them to glory everlasting when looking less than my absolute best."

"Gosh, maybe you're expecting too much from them." Giving up on the tea, XVII nibbled a sugar cube instead, displaying his impressive front teeth. "Think of a plan that utilizes their talents instead of forcing them to act against their true natures. Although I still think the fundraising bars will pan out; they just haven't found the proper market yet, is all."

"You have given me much to think on." Xemnas sat back to observe his beautiful Kingdom Hearts — but his eyes were caught by the disco ball instead. "…Much to think on. But just in case…" With a snap of his fingers he summoned honey BBQ wings (with a side of coleslaw, but it smelled a bit off). Looking ever-so-vaguely perturbed, he snapped the fingers of his _other_ hand, drawing the attention of several nearby Sorcerers. "Bring to me the hearts of Lipps, Inc. If I cannot achieve my Kingdom Hearts, at least I'll still have Funkytown."

**Interlude: Stage II  
**_i did my best, it wasn't much_

Xaldin sits at his table at the foot of the Skyscraper, facing the street so he can't even watch his favorite home video show — though he can hear the whimpers of pain and the laughter of the studio audience as a teenager is mauled by a pack of wild hamsters. He's sat there faithfully all day, recently cajoling a pair of passing Fortunetellers into buying a package of orange cupcakes, but he's had no customers since — and now it's dark and past his bedtime, and he's a bit afraid of walking back to the Castle by himself with his lunchbox filled with munny and Ho Hos.

He doesn't know where the rest of the Organization's gone; their tables are still covered with baubles and gimcracks (but not fruity erasers; a passing Assassin had swallowed those by mistake, thinking it had a handful of orange slices and grapes; it wasn't solely in the digital realm that Nobodies were easily fooled). Even Saïx had left (to fill his stolen Grumpy mug), leaving him alone and hungry (and unable to choke down another Ding Dong unless he wanted to depend on insulin for the rest of his not-life).

He should leave and report the others' dereliction to the Superior, but he'd been ordered to stay until he'd sold _everything_ on his table — and he _really_ wants his position as II back. Naminé had offered to take his remaining snack cakes, but he can't give them away (as per the first line of the Under No Circumstances column) and she can't pay for them (as per the 'Riku took off and left me here without bus fare' incident).

"Hey, I know!" Naminé gives a little jump, and twirls about (but Xigbar did it better, though his grand jeté needed work). "How about we trade? You give me all the nummies, and I'll give you Demyx's hat."

Xaldin gives the proposition due consideration (he would lose forever his collection of chemically-fortified snacks, but he would gain a bargaining chip the next time he wanted a favor from IX), then reaches out to solemnly shake her hand. "Deal."

**return to Stage III  
**_today we salute you, mr. chinese food delivery guy_

"We're back!" Axel jubilantly shoved his way into the room, bags of take-out in one hand and Roxas' arm in the other (he'd used his trusty boot to open the door, and the Dusks had already gathered to repair the busted hinges). "Got you some Kung Pao chicken, D, thought you could use it…" He blinked (listen closely… _blinkablinka_… there it is!) as he finally noticed the change in the room's décor. "Whoa, you got the place cleaned up. I'm impressed." Without a second thought he flopped onto the couch and swung his feet up on the lacquered coffee table, irreparably scratching the surface. "It's a bit — blue, though — don't you think? I mean — blue."

"I _like_ blue." Ignoring the scratch (for he knew Axel would reduce the table to nothing more than a fond memory and a scorch mark within the next few days) Demyx searched through the bags, pulling out his promised chicken. "It's soothing."

"Yeah. It's sedating, alright. What do you think, Roxas?"

Roxas thought Axel could be awfully trying at times (as well as an obnoxious houseguest, and don't _ever_ let him near the furnace unless you're looking for cheap demolition) but he had his moments. "I think we should be grateful Demyx is letting us stay."

"Let?" the musician scoffed around his chopsticks. "I don't remember this _let_ business."

"Aww, you know you love us, D. Or, you know, you would if you could. As long as you're up-to-date on your meds." Axel stretched, sinking down into the cushions of the couch. "Man, this thing's comfortable; a guy could sack out here, no problem."

"Good to know." Smiling in an entirely too kindly manner, Demyx filled a glass with water (no need for the tap, all he has to do is _want_ it, and there it is; Luxord thinks it's a waste of talent, and has been trying to teach him to _want_ gil instead, but has had little success — and much soaking) and handed it to the red haired man. "That's where your guest will be sleeping."

"That's cool, my…" Green eyes narrowed in confusion. "What guest?"

"Your Other called." Revenge was sweet — and Axel hadn't yet realized he'd spilled the glass of water over his lap. "He's dropping by for a visit, sometime during the next couple of days."

**end Stage III**

Other: A term Nobodies use for their missing hearts, and sometimes for the person they used to be, and every once in a while to differentiate between _this_ and the _other_ one. Few Nobodies have Others; Heartless do not qualify (until they've filled out the proper paperwork in triplicate). Other's are unique in that they've never lost their hearts to darkness (i.e. a slew of Large Bodies never squished them flat during an unfortunate mosh pit dive) but formed from some other method. Vexen had been studying the phenomenon, but so far not a single publisher's been interested in printing his works posthumously. (That Vexen wasn't alive when he wrote them is a sticking point.) A Nobody with an Other isn't quite like the other Nobodies: They actually _do_ have hearts, it's just that their hearts are off living separate, happier lives without them.

**return to Stage I  
**_is there no place better, safer, friendlier than this?_

**End Notes:** _Came to the conclusion that the entire Organization suffers from an endemic form of Borderline personality disorder. Demyx is the only one who'll admit it, though _**:D**_ Also came to the conclusion that the reason I like writing Xigbar is that we share a lot of the same speech patterns. Dude. That, and he reminds me of Crush. Dude! I found his Other!_

_Urg, this part was a bear to edit; I apologize for quality -- but I've had enough of looking at the sucker: I can't fix this. _Gogo-chan_, your continuing reviews are _greatly_ appreciated, and alas, eagerly awaited (refresh mail, refresh!). You give me the chutzpa to continue with this oddity. _AnimeDutchess_, it thrills me to no end that you continue to look forward to updates __Next part is silly and serious mixed. Big thank you with a hug to all that've dropped a note saying they've enjoyed my ficcie. Such a small kindness to bring such a huge smile!_


	8. Stage I :Þ

**Disorganization  
Stage I**  
_is there no place better, safer, friendlier than this?_

They gathered, full conclave filled with dark purpose and darker… (Oh, wait. They're in the meeting room again. And their purpose isn't particularly dark, more of a light mauve with peach highlights. Let's try this again.) They gathered, all that remained of their fabulously trendy Organization (and losers like _us_ could only dream of getting in, 'cause they're much more prone to losers like Vexen — and you're far too competent), to honor the ones now gone — or else. It mattered not that their lost members had orchestrated their own demise; Xemnas felt it was only proper to hold a memorial (though most of the others had hoped to forget their absent colleagues as soon as possible) to serve as warning to the rest of them. What that warning consisted of was a bit unclear; mostly they thought it might be 'Don't turn your back on Axel' although other parts could have been interpreted as 'Don't mess with boys with enormous, ugly shoes'. Saïx, taking notes in case of a pop quiz later, summed it up with one eloquent statement: _Lexaeus' ears weren't pointy enough_. He passed his notepad to Xaldin, who nodded and underlined it, twice. Nobody logic dictated that the pointier your ears, the better your chance of survival. So, also logically, Demyx would be the next to go. (Nobody logic, by the by, has _very_ little to do with the run of the mill logic we're more familiar with; you know, the kind that actually makes sense once in a great, rarewhile.)

Saïx pondered if he should say something nice about IX today, so they wouldn't have to gather again in a month to repeat the mind-numbing experience. He decided against the idea when he realized he couldn't come up with a single pleasant thing to say (besides that the boy sent out delightful valentines — and maybe that was reason enough to feel grief over the sorry state of his round, little ((as opposed to XVII's round, enormous — and next in line after Demyx)) ears).

Up at the podium, Luxord shuffled his notes (up, down, in a fan, and all the more impressive since he'd written them out on pastel sticky notes instead of the more prevalent index cards) and took a sip from his silver hip flask before speaking. "Ah, Marluxia, good — or evil, like I even care — number XI. Our flower child, lost before he had the chance to fully bloom…" Done with the top sticky, he pulled it off and stuck it to his shoulder for safekeeping. "A box of Frooty Yums, a pound of demerara sugar, four apples, frozen pizzas without pepperoni…" He peeled off the note and brought it closer to his face. "Hmm. That's our shopping list — but I'm sure it applies to Marly as well. Yes, a box of Frooty Yums; I remember telling Huggybear that exactly! I said, 'Huggybear, isn't it wonderful that the Supercilious sent that Frooty Yum to rot in that drafty old castle out at the edge of nowhere?' and he replied, 'Dude!' I tell you…"

While Luxord peered through his jumbled collection of notes, Roxas ran his fingers along the scratch marring his chair. "Axel," he said sweetly, as his other hand fisted, "my chair's been vandalized. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Heh. You want a culprit, look to Saïx. He's always swinging that club he calls a sword around." Axel was slumped in his chair, his right leg slung over the armrest and swinging, his steel-toed boot smacking against Demyx's chair with disturbing regularity — leaving behind increasingly deep scratches, and an increasingly annoyed Demyx. "Now hush up; Luxord's on a role."

"…and we all went to the rose show, and it turns out Marly had allergies! Couldn't get within twenty feet of the displays without sneezing his pretty pink head off!"

"Oh, I'll hush — as soon as you tell me what this business with your Other's about. You've been putting me off all day!"

Axel blinked (_blinkablinka_ **swoon** I tell you!), not quite believing his roomie had the nerve to bring up the issue during Xemnas' (best attempt out of five) memorial for the vaporized re-deceased. "Have I told you how much I adore your checkered wrist band lately?"

Roxas' scathing answer was covered by the confused clapping of the Organization as Luxord finished his eulogy with a rousing, "And that's why he never wore bumble bee barrettes again!" He bowed, and bowed again, taking off his ten-gallon hat as a sign of respect (for the long-finished quarts of hard lemonade). "Now D is going to say, umm, that is, sing," he corrected himself as he caught sight of the sitar, "a few words about Larxene."

The musician got to his feet (and swung his instrument — eek! No, no, his _sitar_! — hard against Axel's bouncing leg) and made his way to the front of the room, and neither he nor Luxord exchanged high fives as they passed in the aisle, even though Xigbar called out, "Secret handshake!" And he ignored the pained groan given by Xaldin as he walked by (though III got walloped with the sitar, too) as he fondly recalled the Organization's old meeting room, with its high, white chairs that guaranteed that _no_Nobody could intrude within his comfort zone — or even get within ten feet of it. Their current meeting room with its hodgepodge of salvaged furnishings and hastily bought stools and folding camp chairs wasn't nearly as impressive, though they'd be much cheaper to replace once Axel got around to them.

Behind the podium Demyx adjusted the microphone (out of habit, for it was a small room, and besides, they didn't have an extension cord long enough to reach the outlet). "I'm not good with words," he said, to the agreeing snickers of the crowd (which he agreeably flicked two fingers at), "so, anyway…." He began picking out a spritely tune then commenced singing, his voice mournful (but not particularly deep, and not particularly sorrowful… Okay, okay; his voice was much like normal, all jaunty and bright and just a touch nasally). "_A-frick it a-frack it, a green and yellow casket. She supported Marluxia but on the way she bought it. She bought it, she bought it, in Oblivion she bought it_—"

While Saïx covered his ears (and stealthily read the issue of _Elves In Undies_ he'd hidden inside his notebook, where he was horrified to discover that pink long johns were out, and flannel boxers where in) and Xaldin clapped in accompaniment (for he found the subject matter pleasing), Roxas once again pestered his (erstwhile if he kept changing the subject) best friend. "Axel, I want an answer. He's going to be staying in our room — well, Demyx's room, but it's as good as our room — and you haven't said a thing about him. You never even _told_ me you had an Other! 'Fess up, or I'm not buying you bagels for a week."

"A week?" Axel squirmed (partly from the threat, and partly from Demyx gleefully announcing, '_She was dis, dis, dissin' by the sound, so the Keybearer knocked her to the ground! A-frick it a-frack it_—'). "Ain't that a bit harsh? It's not like I'm keeping anything _important_ from you," he said, crossing his fingers behind his back while the room echoed with, '—_Sora sent her to her casket!_' amidst resounding ovation. "You're blowing this all out of proportion."

"And you're doing everything _except_ answering one simple, teeny, tiny question." Roxas tugged at the redhead's arm, leaning to whisper into his (pointed, not gonna go down without a fight) ear. "What are you so afraid of?"

"_And she ain't never comin' back, she insulted him and died!_" Demyx grinned at his cheering audience. "Thanks, you've been great. Any requests?"

"Yeah." Xigbar was scowling (though he'd enjoyed the tribute immensely, having been on the wrong side of Larxene's knives a time or twenty himself). "Where did Xaldin get the popcorn? He didn't get up to pop it; he's been sitting here the entire time. I want popcorn!"

"He's the Master of hot air; he air-popped it. If you want some, ask him to share."

Xaldin snarled and curled protectively around his bag of popcorn. "Touch my Jolly Time and die **_again_** you position stealer! And," he lifted his head high enough to glare at the musician reprovingly, "I'm a master of wind, lowly lounge singer."

Demyx was in the process of summoning an army of water forms (because he was a Dapper Dan at heart — wherever it had gotten off to — and the insult cut deeply) when Xemnas clapped once, quieting the room (and clearing his lap of unpopped kernels ((anything his lackeys can do, he can do better!)) before they were discovered). "Bravo. Bravo, my Melodic Lullaby, you captured the spirit of our dear… hmm… whoever perfectly! You must write one for each of us — starting with Xaldin, for he may be needing it shortly. Yes, do that, and Saïx will take over your current project of… hmm… whatever it is you do immediately. And now XVII, I believe you had a few words you wanted to share about Lexaeus?"

"I did?" XVII looked startled — and covered in (dangerously cheesy) Cheetos crumbs. "I, I suppose I could say something…" Springing down from his chair he ambled to the podium, the key chain hanging from his belt jangling with each step, its crown bright against his black coat. "Um, hello fellow Organization pals!" he greeted them, absently thanking Demyx as the musician picked him up, allowing him to see over the podium. "All hail the Superior! Let's see, Lexaeus was number V. I also have V in my designation, so I suppose that sorta makes us kindred spirits. Except he was enormous, and a bit on the shy side; oh, and he wasn't a mouse. Not that _I'm_ a mouse, heehee, nope, just a lowly Nobody like the rest of you…"

Axel, caught up in a staring contest with the younger blond, finally broke. "Listen; I'm not scared of anything. Okay? It's _embarrassing_ and it's bad enough D and Luxord know about him. And Xiggy, but that's only because they went bar-hopping together last time he visited — which wasn't at all fair, they didn't even _bother_ inviting me, just because I was off double-crossing Marluxia at the time, but that's the way my Other is."

"Luxord knows? Mr. Use anything I learn about you against you Luxord — and you won't tell me?" Roxas crossed his arms, and gave his friend a Look. (No, not the 'I want a puppy' Look. And not the 'I want ice cream, now' Look. It was more the 'You hurt my feelings you insensitive jerk' Look — with a side of dalmatians and chocolate cherry chunk — the best ways Axel had of making up for being an insensitive jerk. A good thing Leon kept rescuing the puppies, or the castle would be hip deep in the ankle-biters by now.) "I see how much our friendship means to you."

"Aww, don't be like that." (We're not sure what 'like _that_' entails, since it's well known that Axel approves of some 'like _that_'s more than others. We'll work on the assumption he's referring to Roxas' incurable hogging of the telly remote.) "You're the only one that I like. Well, besides D — but _everyone_ likes D; he brings See's every Wednesday. But you! You make me feel like I have a heart — which I don't, 'cause it's hanging out with my Other, but if it were here…" He ran nimble fingers through his stiffly spiked hair. "I was going somewhere with this; I'm sure I was…"

"Unless it was you telling me about your Other, I don't particularly care." Roxas raised one delicate eyebrow questioningly. "Were you?"

"…And he kept the best gym, though there wasn't anything _my_ size." XVII was winding down (either that, or Demyx was getting tired of holding him up, for now only the tip of his pointed nose was above the podium) and running out of things to say. "Do you guys know how hard it is to make a sandwich in the kitchen, when the counter's a foot above your head? The vertically challenged have rights too, ya know! I don't think it's right, the way everyone always looks down at me. Lexaeus never looked down at me, but then again, we never met. I'm sure if he were still non-existent, he'd look down at me, too. I'm glad he's gone! In fact, I can't wait for the day you're **all** nothing more than a bad flashback! Good — or evil, you guys need to make up your minds! — riddance to bad rubbish."

XVII motioned to be put down, then scurried off to his chair, ignoring the cheers in his wake. Saïx sniffled, wiping at his eyes (and quickly covering up his magazine when XVII passed by). "Beautiful," he told the smallest member, patting his hooded head. "Harsh, yet true; you captured the empty reality of our not-lives perfectly. Which amongst us has _not_ wished to cease?"

"Yeah." Xigbar nodded, taking his place at the podium. "Those lucky bastards, what did they do to deserve annihilation?" Today his hair was woven into a tight bun, and his eye patch was a subdued neon yellow (to match his visible eye; don't you know that the Organization is the largest consumer of colored contacts in the entire city?) bordered by small topaz stones he couldn't _help_ hot gluing on once he'd noticed how drab the patch was without decoration. "Anywho, Vexen was a dweeb, but he in no way deserved what happened to him. If _anyone_ should have been Benihana'd by Axel, it's the Superior! Not a one of us is more deserving of the bliss found in complete destruction; there'd be no more yearning soliloquies for his missing heart, no more complaints about having to deal with bumbling flunkies — Xemnas would be whole!" he declared, laser-light flickering around his hands.

"He'd be _holed_," Xaldin emended, nonetheless intrigued by the proposal, "and you'd be I — and I'd be II again!" He unwrapped a blueberry fruit pie and nibbled at the sugar-glazed crust. "Saïx becomes III, and Axel—"

"Is putting his foot down," the redhead said (for he'd been listening since the first mention of his name — just in case he'd won the raffle and dinner for four at the Intergalactic House of Breadsticks). "There's no way I'm taking Vexen's place. I'd hafta take over the lab, and wear the silly lab coat, and torture the silly lab rats." He overlooked XVII's fearful shudder. "Get someone else to be IV."

Xigbar hunched his shoulders, his plan derailed. "No one wants to be IV. Vexen had always been kinda sketchy, but these last few years he really lost it, creating dudes out of thin air… His room back at the Big O is _filled_ with Rikus, and he kept going on about his plans of forming an all-Riku ballet troupe — and the man had the nerve t' ask me to instruct them! And I was, like, 'Dude, been sniffin' the fumes from your beakers again?' and he…"

Convinced his position as VIII was safe, Axel turned his attention back to his irate roomie. "You're cute when you're pushy." His questing fingers were slapped aside before they had a chance to pinch. "Yeah, my Other. It all started when we were still, you know, together. We, I… What is the proper grammar?" Scratching underneath the sleeve of his coat (and pulling out an antibacterial wipe instead of his raspberry lotion) he shrugged. "Whatever. I worked for this company, well, a _branch_ of this company that really stressed loyalty. Only, I could tell the company was going under — and you _know_ how I feel about sticking around lost causes. Problem was, my heart refused to give up on them, uh, the _company_, that is. So we decided to split; my heart stayed, and I vamoosed. Nothing special."

"You _decided_ to split?" Try as he might, Roxas couldn't understand the logic (mostly 'cause he hadn't been a Nobody long enough to develop a honed sense of the ridiculous). "And yet your Other still comes around to visit you?"

"Yeah. He's not the type to hold grudges — and sometimes even _he_ needs a break."

Up at the podium, Xigbar smacked his fist into his open hand. "Then he had the nerve to use the tulle of my tutu to strain one of his vile concoctions — I think it was Bavarian cream — and I told him, 'Dude, science will be the death of you.' Whoa, did I ever get that one wrong!" He laughed heartily (and plotted myriad devious ways of parting Xaldin from his bowl of Healthy Pop). "So, I guess in the end Vexen taught me the value of an ice-maker installed in the fridge. Once I got it delivered, I never even noticed the crackpot was missing. I highly recommend Amana."

"Very educational, II," Xemnas praised him with a pat and a shove away from the podium. "And you're correct. Henceforth our refrigerator shall be IV; please go to it with all of your scientificky problems, and stop bothering my magic 8 Darkball. Now," he bowed his head, and clasped his hands, and tried to figure out how to spin the wire drum containing the raffle tickets while his hands were clasped placidly before him, "a moment of respectful silence for Zexion, who would have _hated_ anyone _speaking_ for him. Yes, the baby of our happy little apprentice clique, and why, why," he freed his hands, and raised his arms (and casually spun the drum), "were we apprentices? Why not fellow researchers? Or even assistants? I can see starting out a career as an apprentice — but we'd been stuck in that lab for eight years! Alas, poor Zexion—"

"Is sitting right here," the man drawled from his position next to Luxord.

"—cut down in the prime of his _not_life!"

"Did none of you read the fax I sent?" Zexion was just a bit miffed, tired of being ignored. "'Fallen into ruin' is _nothing_ like 'kicked the bucket'. I demand recompenses; a hundred gil for every syllable you've forced me to speak. Oh beauteous squiggle land, desire of my mechanical adverb."

Demyx poked the new arrival with the tip of his sitar, surprised when it met resistance (and a pained 'oof!'). "But, we've all seen your Proof; it's rubble."

"Saïx tried walking through it while holding his claymore; of course the brute didn't fit."

"_Ahem_," Xemnas cleared his throat, and tossed a glowy sword that Zexion barely managed to dodge (by expediently opening a portal and leaving, having remembered _why_ he'd ditched the Organization to begin with), "as I was saying, Zexion will be missed — that quick little bugger. Now, for the winner of the memorial raffle…" He opened the door to the wire drum and pulled out a ticket. "Congratulations, Roxas. You and three of your insignificant hangers-on will partake of a gourmet meal at IHoB, in Traverse Town's pungent Eighth District. Enjoy."

Roxas claimed his vouchers, a peculiar frown twisting his lips. "Axel—"

"Sure I'll go with you!" Axel stood and grabbed his friend in an enthusiastic hug/spin. "It'll be great; they make the best breadsticks. Just you and me—"

"And Luxord and Demyx; they're letting us share their room, it's the least we can do." Roxas bent his knees to absorb the shock as he was suddenly dropped. "And while we're there, you can tell me _all_ about your Other — and this business of voluntarily discarding your heart to his own devices. If he can find you… how come _my_ heart can't find me?"

**end Stage I**

Zexion: Number VI of the Organization (and number 53 of the Committee, ß of the Coalition, and Supreme Stalker of the Garbo Adoration Society) Zexion had been presumed dead — mostly because Axel had bragged to everyone in the Organization of how he'd orchestrated the Schemer's demise. Attacked by the Riku Replica for his power, Zexion was left alive by the doppelgänger when the construct discovered his power consisted of little more than a limited supply of AAA batteries and a handful of projects (ranging from building a covered porch out of cedar to talking Xemnas into increasing the city's bookmobile budget.). His current whereabouts are unknown, though his e-mail is being forwarded to GarboForever at silentstars dot se

**exit: Stage Right  
**_and if only we all lived in Pretzel Land_

**End Notes:** _…This fic has gotta end sometime. It's not feelin' quite as funny to me any more… Everyone and their cousin knows who Axel's Other is, right? Yeah, I thought so_** :þ **_Obvious._

_Just wanted to thank all the pretty pretty people that've reviewed _**:D** Gogo-chan_, your reviews are the _best_. Absolutely gets me fluttering about my office/library/storage room like the kook I am. I've a soft spot for the Organization (and I've got a sinking feeling it's in my head). _Legnalos_, I entirely agree! Except for Axel, who _cannot_ be _Lea_, and so must be _Æl_ — which might be worse! _Ri2_, easy answer: Yes they could — but Axel doesn't want to. _Gexegee_, deep down I'm thrilled with the waffles, but the rest of me is intimidated to the point of pulling on Depends by your writing. I'll be cowering in the corner, enjoying my waffles, dreading that you'll realize your error and snatch them back._


	9. Stage Right, Stage IV

**Disorganization  
****Stage Right  
**_and if only we all lived in Pretzel Land_

He hadn't designed the mansion. He hadn't hired the architect responsible, either. Hadn't chosen the textured wallpaper, or the custom tile, or the restroom's brass fixtures (and hadn't remembered to replace the roll of toilet paper he'd finished off for that matter, as Naminé learned to her everlasting disgust). Point in fact, he'd had _nothing_ to do with the mansion before he'd jimmied open the lock and made himself at home in the spacious basement concealed by the building's congenial façade. If he'd been responsible for the décor, there wouldn't have been pansy unicorns vapidly gazing at him from every surface. DiZ didn't like unicorns; they, like his former apprentices, were surely hiding natures of pure darkness under their pretty-boy, light exteriors (although for the sake of fairness he was willing to acknowledge that Braig had always looked the part of a hoodlum, and it had been something of a shock at their first interview when the man had opened his mouth and — instead of hissing obscenities — greeted him with an ear-aching, 'How's it hangin', Ansem-dude?').

He hadn't personally designed the laboratory, having gotten the floor plan out of an issue of _Better Basements and Dungeons_ (although he proudly took credit for being the first man ((although _not_ the first dog-thing)) to build a super-deluxe-ultra-wowzie computer with an electric pencil sharpener pre-installed). The monitors he'd picked up cheap at a closeout sale. He couldn't replace them, true, but the fish tank he'd set up on the counter to replace the panel Riku had shattered while practicing his Dark Paddleball nicely balanced everything out. He'd considered adding gold fish — but couldn't figure out a way of squeezing them into the monitors without shorting out their circuits. The monitors, that is. The gold fish he could pick up five for a munny, making them cheap enough to replace.

At this particular moment DiZ was pondering his current mission (how to talk Riku into fetching him a pita) as well as the set-backs he'd been experiencing with his annoying pet project, the comatose — and looking _increasingly_ liable to stay that way — Sora. He'd checked and rechecked his calculations (all the while cursing his lack of lab assistants upon which he could dump the dirty work; Lexaeus had been a marvel at catching his little booboos without blurting them out over martinis during formal dinners with his rival mad scientists), but could find nothing to explain the boy's complete failure to reintegrate his memories.

Riku had laughed in his face (and behind his back, and at the market while choosing between canned peas and creamed corn) when he'd asked the boy if by any chance Sora had been a closet stoner before taking a hero-ish turn. "Would explain a lot, wouldn't it?" he'd replied, his laughter incongruous in the stuffy room, his dancing eyes reflecting off the hibernating monitors and his delighted mirth echoing from the sheet metal walls. "The pants-less duck, though — that's pure acid."

DiZ had then confronted Naminé — since she was the one responsible for the original memory loss, and equally responsible for Sora's eventual recovery (and he hated admitting that all of his wonderfully flashy monitors and sharpened pencils had zilch to do with the Keyblade Master and oodles to do with his dysfunctional Sims family, where even in pseudo-cyber-life Xehanort refused to obey his desultory dictates and instead busily went about the Sim lab yanking the Sim hearts out of Sim Twilight Town Struggle combatants). He accused her of purposefully lollygagging, and beseeched her to give up her misplaced loyalty to the Organization.

Naminé had joined Riku in his laughter (behind the old coot's back, and at the market while she compared certain products for comfort and absorption — for she had no mommy to offer her advice), and stuttered, "D-did you just say lollygagging?"

Once Riku had explained to him _what_ exactly lollygagging implied in the current vernacular popular amongst the youth of Traverse Town, DiZ had called it a night and went to rest on his hard, cold bed in his exceptionally Ochre Room — but he couldn't sleep. Instead, he regretted lost opportunities to lollygag when he'd been Ansem the Wise, and not merely the Wizened.

He had no time for regrets, though; Sora's situation was becoming critical (for the cops had already stopped by twice investigating rumors that he had some kid locked inside a freezer in a secret room accessible from the library; he blamed Riku for the leak, Riku blamed Naminé, and Naminé claimed DiZ was a terrible gossip after the third ale shared with his bosom drinking buddies down at Seventh Heaven). If he wanted his painstakingly calculated revenge, he needed the pint-sized menace functional. And if he wanted Sora up and about (he'd concluded after consulting Madame Leota, who'd taken up residence inside his Sparklett's bottle and refused to budge, even when offered teriyaki jerky) he needed Sora's Nobody — who was actually much more of a Somebody than his hopelessly snoozing Other at the present.

"Where is Roxas?" he asked Riku, his voice impressive and reverberating but his cloak less than stellar with its blotchy ice cream stains. "I've asked but one thing from you, yet you return time and again with a bag full of pretzels, and no number XIII. I thought you'd do anything to help your friend Sora."

Riku scowled, and bit into his jalapeño pretzel, chewing it with savage enjoyment. "It had _raisins_, DiZ. I'd like to see you gag one down." He licked a smear of spicy cheese from his thumb. "I don't get why the kid is so important anyway. I know," he waved away DiZ's harrumph, scattering salt crystals across the console's keyboard, "you _explained_ it to me. Explain it again."

"Very well." DiZ reclined (courtesy of his malfunctioning computer chair) and steepled his fingers, "_Open the doors, and see all the pe_… Oh, right, the explanation." He quickly positioned his hands into a relaxed, more natural position. "Roxas is a part of Sora. I'm not sure which part; Sora seems rather uncomplicated; if anything were missing, I don't see how he could function at all — although it doesn't take much skill to bop critters with an oversized key, does it? He wouldn't need his memories for that… I'm strictly doing it as a favor to you, you know. Personally, I'd rather be mailing the Organization letter bombs—"

"And this has to do with Roxas how?" Another pretzel was pulled from the bag, warm to the touch and garlicky by the smell. "I _know_ about your vendetta. But what part does dragging Roxas back _here_ play in it?"

"Besides dealing a dispiriting blow to the Organization that they may never recover from?" Sensing that the conversation was coming to a close, DiZ picked up his mail and began sorting through it. "Again, I'm thinking only of _your_ welfare, Riku. Number XIII _loves_ pretzels. Devours them by the baker's dozens. It's quite possible that one day you'll walk into the bakery, and they'll be sold out of pretzels."

"No!"

"Horrifying, isn't it? Thus, the need to remove Roxas from the playing field. Hmm," he sliced open an envelope with one of Naminé's ubiquitous (titanium white smeared) pallet knives, recognizing the sender, "I wasn't expecting a statement for my credit card. What did you need to pur… Oh. Dear. Lord of the Bouncywilds." The shock of the billing statement sent his heart into arrhythmia (nearly to complete arrest; seven beats per minute to the tune of 'I'm going to kill Riku' was scarcely enough to keep a man of his — grouchitude — alive) and it took the concerted efforts of Riku slapping him across the back and Pluto showing up unexpectedly to slurp him across the face to return him to his usual hyper-tensioned self. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Of what?"

"Charitable contributions to the Organization! Three of them. A charge from Beddo Buy. A POS transaction from Firehouse Furnishings. Twelve, no, fourteen purchases originating from Peter's Pan Pretzels. And how in the Worlds does a person _spend_ this much at Miz Maizy's Ice Cream Emporium in a single month? The pancreas can't _handle_ the overload. Riku… explain this, at once! _Why_ are you contributing to our fiendishly foppy enemies?"

"I didn't!" the silver haired boy denied, snatching the statement to read the charges for himself. "That is, yes, I bought the sun catcher. And a _Delite_ bar. And I kinda sorta maybe left my key chain behind… and Naminé… and your card…" A rose-colored flush graced his cheeks. "Oops?"

"'_Oops_'? I'm confronted with such _villainy_ and all you have to say for yourself is '**Oops**'?"

"Uh, that, and most of the pretzel debits are mine…"

"Aargh!" DiZ spat angrily and pushed Pluto away, tired of the dog slobbering against his mouth. "Forget Roxas; he can wait. I want you to _put down that wretched pretzel_ and retrieve my platinum card immediately! Use the powers of Darkness if you have to; use the power of the Keyblade; use the power of the Morphin' Grid if it comes down to that. Just bring me back my card!" Weary from his rant, he slouched down in his chair (the back of which finally gave out, dumping him to the floor). "And a pita. With bacon bits. —And a bag of ice."

**return to Stage IV  
**_vino, vino, atsa glass-a wine_

They were enjoying their meal (or at least consuming the complimentary breadsticks at an astonishing rate). They'd arrived in Traverse Town earlier that evening — and after a small delay (for Axel had wanted to go right, Luxord left, and both attempts had left the group standing confounded in front of the splurting tramp fountain) they'd entered the restaurant (or ristorante, as their hostess Muffy told them as she ushered them to their table way, _way_ in the back, next to the kitchen's profusion of overflowing waste bins). Unsure of what to order (for while Roxas was familiar with Italian cuisine, he'd never before dined Italiano), Luxord had requested a bottle of merlot, seconded by Axel (not the _choice_ of wine, which needed no approval and that the redhead happened to agree with, no; Axel demanded his _own_ bottle of merlot since he was ever-so-slightly stingy when it came to booze), along with four wine glasses.

So they drank, and munched on freshly baked breadsticks (that Roxas twisted into pretzel-shapes as a matter of honor), and drank some more because, as Luxord announced to their hostess, their waiter, and the noshing patrons of the establishment, "It's D's un-birthday! He hasn't existed for three whole years!"

"It's been that long already? Wow." Axel, scorning his hand-blown wine flute, drank straight from the bottle. "Congrats, IX. A toast!" He raised his bottle and neatly clocked a busboy, dropping him to the floor where he was consequently stepped on by a flood of children heading to the restrooms. "Here's to D, my favoritist doormat; may you be around for another three years for me to pester and mooch honey mustard from."

Not sure if he should be pleased or destructively wrathful over the red haired man's comments, Demyx instead took a sip of merlot, wrinkling his nose at the taste (for unlike two of his tablemates he preferred mudslides, and unlike one of his tablemates he could pass for legal drinking age ((as long a Luxord did the convincing)) and thus wasn't stuck with Italian sodas) before setting it back down and grabbing a breadstick instead. "Actually, I'm kinda hoping I'll be around _longer_ than three years. And that I'll have a heart by then. You'd _think_ they'd push me to the top of the transplant list, since my heart's actually _gone_ and not just malfunctioning, but _no_…"

"So you don't have an Other?" Roxas asked, feeling sorry for the older boy (and a bit envious of the present Luxord had genially handed him, a gift from the Queen of Hearts in the form of a promise that he'd receive Alice's heart as soon as the Queen managed to behead the crafty girl).

"Oh, I do," Demyx assured him, tucking the IOU into his pocket, "but my Other's uncomfortable around me. I get postcards once in a while, souvenirs and such. Pass the marinara," he asked, hurriedly steering the subject away from his personal _not_life. "Now Axel's Other, he shows up all the time. Guy's a blast, literally. Never thought I'd meet someone more destructive than Axel, then — Oww!"

"How _clumsy_ of me," Axel said, his smirk a bit panicked. "And me wearing steel-toed boots. Hope your leg doesn't bruise."

"Hope your _face_ doesn't bruise!"

Roxas sighed, and passed the tray of dipping sauces (marinara, alfredo, lemon garlic, and something incredibly cheesy and hot — breadstick nirvana), forcing himself between his two friends. "He gets like this every time the subject of his Other comes up. I don't get it. What's the matter with you, Axel? The whole purpose of the Organization is to restore our hearts, and here you are with an Other that's not only around, but _wants_ to see you. You could be whole, but instead—"

"Whoa." Axel shook his head, and finished off his bottle of merlot. "I could be, yeah — right. Have you already forgotten that _I'm_ the one that decided to ditch him? Until he reprioritizes and quits that dead-end job, we're not getting back together. No way, no how. And if in the meantime Xemnas actually manages to come through on his deluded promises? Well, that would solve both our problems; he wouldn't have to worry about me, and **I** wouldn't need **him**." He slammed the empty bottle down (on that poor, poor busboy's head; the young man should never have majored in philosophy, look where it's got him) and glared woozily about the room. "Are we done here yet?"

"What a waste of a free meal," Luxord mourned, waving over their waiter (who'd been hovering nearby, dutifully tarryin until they were ready to order). "Not much of an un-birthday feast; we didn't even make it to the appetizers. Ah well. There's the fellow," he smiled up at the waiter, showing off a few more teeth than were necessary (but he'd just switched whiteners, and was becoming desperate for _someone_ to compliment him on his pearly whites). "Hand him the vouchers Roxas, and we'll be on our way."

The waiter accepted the vouchers, read them, then nodded agreeably. "I'll just be back with your check, then."

"Check?" Roxas stood (and elbowed apart Axel and Demyx on the off chance that they'd decide to resume hostilities). "Why do we need a check? The vouchers are good for four people — and we didn't even order a main course, or dessert, or _anything_. All we ate were breadsticks."

"And drank two expensive bottles of merlot." The waiter handed back one of the vouchers, along with a jeweler's loupe. "As you can see, the vouchers don't include alcoholic beverages, taxes, spoon rental, or gratuity. Now, gentlemen: How will you be paying?"

"Xemnas is _such_ a rotter." Roxas couldn't see anything but a line of dots through the loupe, but he took the waiter's word regarding the wording of the fine print. "Good thing I stuck with ice water. See you guys back in the room." With a little wave (and a final, warning pinch of Axel's arm) he portaled out of the restaurant.

"Will wonders never cease? Innocent little XIII just ran out on the bill." Luxord dabbed at his mouth with an elegantly folded cloth napkin, then slapped Demyx on the back. "I knew there was a reason I liked that boy. Ciao, Axel. D, _my_ present's waiting for you; don't be long." Without further ado he disappeared into darkness (though the _chingching_ of ethereal slot machines detracted from the effect).

Demyx was prepared to follow when Axel collapsed against him. "Don't leave me alone," the other man begged through a fall of violently red hair. "'M too drunk to portal; I'd end up in Agrabah, and that genie _annoys_ me…"

"I can't portal us both home, Axel!" He tried pushing the taller man away only to end up with his lap full of sloshed fire-starter. "Give me a break; it's my un-birthday. The last thing I want is to be stuck here with you working off your tab!"

"'M sorry."

"Yeah, you are." Reluctantly he patted the bright head resting against his chest. "You put yourself through all this — and chances are, he's not even gonna show." Demyx smiled weakly (and, of course, a bit watery-ly) at the waiter. "Do you accept dishwashers?"

As water forms scrubbed and rinsed and provided cool compresses for the concussed busboy, Demyx stayed seated at the table, basket of cold breadsticks in front of him and unconscious VIII next to him. "Happy un-birthday," he wished himself, draining the last of the merlot.

What confused the waiter (who'd been eavesdropping in an attempt to fill the void that was his own drab life) was that the young man hadn't sounded sarcastic at all.

**end Stage IV**

Luxord: Number X of the Organization, Luxord fancies himself a gambling man though statistically he only bets on unknown outcomes 19 percent of the time. Easy going, he's never been able to understand why the other Organization members (excluding his favorite coterie) take their bleak non-existence so seriously. A CPA back in the day, he's vowed to enjoy his second chance (and to that end he's vacationed in exotic locales, eaten exotic foods, and been chased by the exotic spouses of the exotic natives he'd wooed with shiny beads and disposable razors). Unbeknownst to Demyx, Luxord's room was finished some time ago; he enjoys staying with the musician, and finds it a pleasant change from the years he'd spent alone and unwanted as a stodgy CPA.

**advance to Stage VI  
**_there is nothing left to throw of ginger, lemon, indigo_

**End Notes:** _Hee, getting closer to the end! Wow, lots of reviews for the last part, which means either (a) it was a better part over-all, or (b) I finally posted at a time when there were people around to read it_ ;) _B it is._ Galaxy Girl_, I do appreciate the critique; this isn't my usual writing style (though it does tend to slip out with alarming regularity). At this point, though, I don't know how to fix it without rewriting, and I _loathe_ the process. I did giggle at your comment of 'narrator' since the entire ficcie was visualized up on a stage. Yup, it's the community theater production of The Organization! _Gogo-chan_; you inflate my ego and send me with a smile through my day. I hope the story will continue to be worthy of your time and encouragement. _Gexegee_, I feel slightly more secure, and the syrup is greatly appreciated. But I suppose now I'll hafta change my plans; can't have the entire fic be resolved with Xemnas and XVII dancing in a field of rutabagas declaring their eternal grudging respect for each other, sealed with a smack. Hmm._ AnimeDutchess_, I owe you a glomp._

Ri2_ and _Legnalos_, and the situation with Axel's Other: I know who I think he is; I've believed this theory for some time. But! But but but, I'm not the only one who happens to believe it, and sadly, I'm not the first to address the issue in fanfic. So so so. To keep from being accused of intellectual theft I will not be using his name. ("Hey, you stole my idea! I'm the _only_ person capable of understanding the insistence of using the same VAs in both the nihongo and eigo versions. Die, Esse!") Eee, I _so_ don't want the hassle._


	10. Stage VI

**Disorganization  
****Stage VI  
**_there is nothing left to throw of ginger, lemon, indigo_

It wasn't so much the sifting he was having problems with as it was the creaming. That's not to say that the sifting was going well — or that it was even going — as the flour had no problem being poured into the top of the sifter (three cup capacity with a spring-loaded handle that gave off an air of confidence rivaled only by Xemnas after a rousing game of Pin the Tail on Eeyore) but seemed to have issues with falling gently out of the sieved bottom. (Fear of abandonment, perhaps, or a touch of agoraphobia; he wasn't all that conversant with the psychological failings of finely ground wheat.) He'd tried shaking the sieve, and slapping the sides; had used a spoon in an attempt to force the flour through the mesh but had only succeeded in raising a choking white cloud that dusted the counter (and the floor, and the expensive gadgets indicative of culinary proficiency; Demyx could whip up a mouthwatering crème brulée like _no_Nobody's business — and Demyx was going to be less than pleased if he walked in on his ((once sanctuary, now insane asylum)) flour-coated kitchen).

Momentarily giving up on the sifting (thus quite literally turning his back on the flour, the cinnamon, the ginger and cloves and nose-tickling nutmeg, the soda, the salt, and the stray weevils that had been the main reason he'd decided the flour needed sifting in the first place), he'd focused his attention to the creaming; butter and sugar, molasses and egg (the type of egg hadn't been specified, but in the fridge ((umm, that would be, inside _IV_, wouldn't it now?)) there'd been a dozen large, fresh gull eggs that he was _positive_ he'd encountered before, though he couldn't recall _exactly_ where, so that was what he'd cracked — several times over, before he found one that hadn't already been otherwise occupied). The stainless steel mixing bowl turned, and the beaters beat, but the mixture looked no more ready to turn into cream than Xigbar (who'd come into the kitchen in hopes of discovering Xaldin's secret Jolly Time stash). And that was an achievement, since Xigbar usually resembled nothing so much as a giant cream puff.

"Hey, little dude. What's the matter?" Xigbar wasn't a comforting sort of person naturally — but things had changed when he'd entered his unnatural _not_life — and he got antsy whenever the younger Organization members pouted, for it was usually a prelude to catastrophic strife within their happy domicile. "Experiment not working out?"

Roxas shut down the mixer and poked his index finger into the sweet goo. "It's this newest scheme of Xemnas'," he said, sucking his finger clean — and deciding that, even if it wasn't creamed, the glop was good enough to add the flour to, if _ever_ the flour decided to make its way out of the sifter. "I'd swear the man's deranged; I'd just got back in when he sprang this on me. I don't know what to do, Xigbar. I've never baked in my life. Unlife." He smacked the sifter, raising another obscuring puff. "That is, I don't _remember_ ever baking, and if _this_ mess is anything to go by, I think it's safe to say I never have." Disgusted with the flour's misbehavior, he dumped it — weevils and all — into the mixing bowl (and if the weevils survived the mixing and the baking ((and the eventual eating)) then more power to them).

"…What new plan?" the graying man asked, worry pitching his voice into the falsetto range. "This… He's still not on that fundraising kick, is he?"

"You haven't heard?" Turning on the mixer (to its highest setting, not only making it impossible for us to hear what he's whispering in the older man's ear, but also flinging gooey lumps of spicy cookie dough our way, forcing us out into the hall so we don't even have the opportunity to practice our lip reading), he explained the latest torture their Superior (as advised by XVII) had devised.

"That's totally bogus!" Xigbar picked blobs of dough from his coat and slowly ate them, nodding approvingly when he bit into a chunk of crystallized ginger. "I'm second in command; when was he planning on telling me this? Day of, so I'd look a total loser? That's it, isn't it? He never planned on me succeeding as II. Xaldin's got his ear—"

"I think it's more like XVII has his ear," the blond boy cut in thoughtfully. "I saw him out in the hall earlier, not the _hall_," he flung his hand to the side in dismissal, "but, you know, _the_ Hall. And he was flexing his itty-bitty arms, and waggling his great big ears, and he kept shouting over and over, 'Who da mouse? That's right! I da mouse!' It was creepy." Reading the (flour-coated) recipe, Roxas plunked the ball of dough on to the cutting board (likewise flour-coated, saving him a whole fifteen seconds that otherwise would have been spent ruining yet more flour). "I think we need to keep closer tabs on XVII. Where did he come from? What's his agenda?"

"You worry too much." Digging through the utensil drawer, Xigbar eventually found the rolling pin (and by setting it on the counter, it too was miraculously flour-coated) though the cookie cutters were nowhere to be found. "We all keep secrets. Take Saïx: He came from an off-Broadway production of Cats. That's bound t' give a man issues. And Luxord? He was nothing more than a cog in the system. Bona fide desk jockey too afraid of the commodities market to make a go at anything. What of yourself, little dude?"

"I — don't know." Roxas rolled the dough then stared at it in dismay, stymied by the missing cutters. "I just woke up in Twilight Town one day, this dopey orange dog in my face; I don't know who I used to be, and no one'll give me a clue."

"Like, that's exactly my point. Maybe you're not the only one whose past is MIA. XVII's harmless enough — even if he does wind Xemnas up." He'd opened up the pantry, and was staring at the stacked cans of pickled beets with an expression of mild (and abiding) loathing as he went over possibilities for his own mandated project. "Then again, he coulda been a total whack job in his previous incarnation; I was. But being a pale shadow of my former self has really chilled me out; best thing that's ever happened to me, according to my ex. And the highway patrol. And Nick, my parole officer. Heh, just about _everyone_ agrees I'm better off this way, except my cat. Buttons was never the same — but she makes an adorable Heartless. Ain't no loss without some gain, am I right?"

"Umm…" Futilely searching through the drawers and cupboards himself, Roxas eventually concluded that the cookie cutters weren't in the kitchen. "I thought cats were Heartless to begin with."

"Only if you don't scritch them under their chins properly," Demyx answered the rhetorical question as he staggered into the kitchen to collapse in a tired heap by the bubble-filled sink. He blinked stupidly at his flour-coated (hey, they touched the floor, of _course_ they're floured, it'll be _months_ before the residue is eliminated) gloves, then raised his head to survey the kitchen. "Has anyone else noticed how — white — it is in here? It shouldn't be white; I spent days wallpapering this section, all pale green vines and teapots…" He cradled his head in his hands (and, well, you know the drill) to escape the brightness. "Do I _want_ to know?"

"Xemnas' orders." At an impasse over how to shape his cookies, Roxas walked over to the slumped musician and patted his shoulder soothingly. "And you _don't_ want to know, but you'll find out soon enough. Are — you okay? I was expecting you back last night. You and Axel—"

"Axel's a lush, and I was buffaloed into taking care of the bill. If I _ever_ see another dirty dish in my feeble parody of a life…" Demyx purposefully ignored Xigbar ah he quickly pushed the grubby measuring cups into the sink. "My water forms have blisters. I can't play my sitar 'cause my fingers are waterlogged. And Axel spewed on my new braided rug once I got him aware enough to portal home. Might as well tell me what's up; let me deal with all the disasters at once."

"You asked for it," Xigbar sneered (not because he had anything against Demyx, but because he despised the task set before him, and he'd temporarily ran short of good will and general rad-ness; not even Xigbar can be awesome 24/7, though he makes a good go of it). "Boss man's treading the shallow end of the pool on this one."

Roxas explained their newest trial, and Demyx listened with dull, unsurprised eyes. "And that's why I'm making gingerbread Shadows — but I can't find the cookie cutters anywhere, and it's really strange, because I'm sure I saw them not all that long ago."

"You did." Demyx got to his feet slowly (and with much moaning and creaking of abused joints — VIII was heavy for a twig-man) and began making his way towards the door. "Axel was selling them at the rummage sale. I _think_ he traded them to XVII for a box of matches."

"All the cookie cutters?" Xigbar dropped a jar of pickled hearts of palm on his foot in surprise. "He voxeled those things; used them to trace out patterns for his mobiles, and swore he'd rather give up his finger paints than lose them."

"It was a _big_ box of matches. He voxels those more."

"I _told_ you there's something fishy about XVII!" Roxas shook the rolling pin sternly at the other two (accidentally dropping it, but the three-second rule came into play — no worries). "Conspiracy! Why else would he _purposefully_ take possession of all our cookie cutters, then talk Xemnas into — this? But what is his goal? What is he _truly_ after?" Roxas crossed his arms, and stared up into the starless sky (the NBCC _had_ roofed the kitchen, but Saïx'd promptly brought it down when he'd lost control of his temper, jumped up to attack the espresso machine, and smacked head first into a ceiling that hadn't been overhead the day before; as you can surmise, the ceiling didn't survive the encounter. Neither did the Wake Up Grumpy mug). "He's not trying to climb the ranks of the Organization, or he would have called dibs on IV… And it's not like the fridge is gonna fight him for it. I just can't figure it out."

"Maybe he's secretly working with DiZ against our Master Plan of…" Arms now filled with apricot-pineapple jam and Crisco, Xigbar tried to find a clean spot _anywhere_ to set them down. "Um, sitting around on our duffs while we wait for Sleeping Beauty to awaken. That's a _crappy_ Plan, by the way. It's what we've been doing for, like, _ever_." Unsuccessful in his search, he dropped his supplies in a heap on the counter next to Roxas — then held his breath for the next minute while he waited for the cloud to settle. "DiZ doesn't need to sabotage us, it's not like we've _accomplished_ anything this decade."

"We built Oblivion." Demyx (who, due to fatigue — and the fact that he couldn't be bothered to _care_ about what Xigbar was up to — hadn't realized the older man was purposefully going to provoke the weevil-infested flour) sneezed behind one hand, ruining both the glove and his fragile appetite. "Well, our Nobody peons built it. Then Marluxia went and filled it with gardenia-scented sachets; absolutely destroyed its resale appeal. Now it's a rental property, and Prince Charming's been given sixty days' notice. He says he's taking us to court as slumlords. Luxord believes we have a fair chance of proving libel — but I'll believe it once I see that fugly pumpkin coach out of the driveway."

"Like I said, D-dude: We've accomplished nada. Which makes your—" he pointed at Roxas with his recently acquired slotted wooden spoon "—paranoia so cute! You _are_ the cutest thing; if you weren't, like, one apple bob away from being dead, the girls would be lining up at the door! That is, if our door wasn't in a World of Eternal Shadow and Despair. But hey! The goth chicks totally dig that. As I was tellin' D-dude yesterday, just… Um… D? Where're you going?"

The musician winced (although not even he's sure if it's from being caught sneaking out, or from Xigbar's enthusiasm, even though the likeliest culprit is the rolling pin Roxas had just dropped on his foot; not wood, not nonstick silicone, but marble meant for the most delicate of pastries, of which XIII's aromatic cookie dough most definitely wasn't). "T' ask XVII if he's a spy busily orchestrating our downfall. Duh! I'm gonna ask if he'll lend us the cookie cutters."

"Could you check up on Axel while you're at it?" Roxas asked, nimbly bending over to retrieve his wayward chunk of cylindrical rock. "It's not like him to miss an opportunity to create a mess, and this — this is going to be messy."

"Going to be?" Demyx once again surveyed the kitchen, then shook his head (and moaned, sure he'd felt something important **clunk**). "You mean it's going to get worse?"

Finely honed knife in one hand to carve out Shadow shapes in his gingerbread and heavy rolling pin in the other to beat said shapes into submission should they decide to come to life — always a possibility when there's weevil Heartless involved, Roxas tilted his head, obscuring his eyes behind a profusion of dough-sticky spikes. "Xaldin's not here yet — and he's into meringue."

"Touché. I'll be back. Cookie cutters, Axel, goggles: Is that everything?"

"More flour. We're gonna need _tons_ more flour." Xigbar fished the soapy measuring cups out of the sink, ending up with a fine collection of teaspoons in the process. "Three pounds lost through attrition for every cookie successfully created; found the formula in the guidebook; finally got around to reading it. Did you know that not only do we not have hearts, we're missing our appendixes as well? And two out of three Nobodies are short a kidney. Makes ya think twice about being an organ donor, don't it? Lose your heart, and if you don't reform as a Nobody fast enough, lose your liver, too."

"First — eww!" There was a distinct possibility that the musician's appetite might never return; his cherished memories of baking cookies with his Mama had never included casual conversation about organ harvesting (and he couldn't help poking himself lightly in the gut, and wondering). "Second, I'll ask about the flour. Not quite sure _who_ I'll ask, but there's bound to be somenobody standing outside our room that won't be able to run off fast enough. I'd say try not to burn down the kitchen while I'm gone — but I'm bringing Axel back with me. You should be safe enough in the meantime." He left the kitchen, and the sink full of water sloshed to the floor and followed aimlessly after him, taking various bowls and beaters with it.

Roxas and Xigbar worked in companionable silence (Roxas whacking the dough whenever it tried crawling off the cutting board, and Xigbar snooping through Xaldin's recipe cards, hoping to find his favorite dessert bar recipe amidst the clutter) while they waited for IX to return from his errands. Mostly, Roxas filled the time by worrying about his roommate (not over the fact that he'd returned from their night out inebriated to the point of needing _Demyx's_ help, but that Axel might be holding a grudge over being left in the restaurant to begin with).

"'M back," Demyx announced himself, cookie cutters dangling from his fingers and a fifty-pound bag of flour apparently wandering about by its own volition behind him — until the bag fell to the floor, displaying the ever-helpful always-cheerful XVII. "Had to dodge Saïx; he's finalizing his war plans against the espresso machine, and is recruiting shock troops for the first attack. With any luck we'll be finished before he shows up."

"If not, he can duke it out with the gingerbread." His attempts to contain the evil yet deliciously fragrant Shadow cutouts had been less than successful; they'd gathered by the oven en masse (and pity the Nobody that tried to cross their picket line). "What about Axel? I thought you were bringing him back."

"He's still sound asleep." The older blond passed over the cutters, then helped XVII drag the bag of flour further into the kitchen. "Should wake up in a good mood, though. Apparently he never heard his Other knocking on the door. There was a note; said he wanted t' wait around, but there's a seminar he needed to catch. He figures they'll catch up later. Looks like Axel's off the hook."

"For now," Xigbar chuckled, still flipping through increasingly bizarre recipes.

"What do you mean: For now?" Instead of trying to round up his wayward cookies, Roxas decided he'd be better off making a fresh batch of dough.

"What? I didn't mean anything by it." Triumphantly pulling out his (handed down from dealer to dealer) recipe, Xigbar chucked the remaining cards into the trash compactor. "A statement like that just needs a 'for now' at the end of it. Makes it sound all foreshadow-y; you know, like, _dire_. Whoa…" He examined his arm (which he'd lifted to turn on the compactor). "See, little dude? Suspense gave me goose bumps. How gnarly is that?"

XVII, assuming Xigbar had been addressing him (for he was the _littlest_ dude), dutifully examine the arm. "That's pretty neat!" Opening one of the cupboards underneath the counter, he pulled out his step stool and positioned it next to Roxas. "IX told me you're making cookies. I thought I could help. I _love_ making cookies."

Roxas glared at the intruder from the corner of his eye. "Nobodies **_can't_** love. That's it. I can't ignore your suspicious behavior any longer. _Are_ you some kind of hero of light come to ruin our attempts at recreating the lives brutally ripped away from us by the darkness?"

"You're so _cute_!" XVII laughed nervously and pulled his hood further over his whiskered face. "Of course I'm not! I have the coat, don't I?"

"Oh yeah, you do." Shrugging philosophically, Roxas began measuring flour once more. "Sorry for the accusation; can't be too careful nowadays. Pass the molasses, would ya?"

**end Stage VI**

XVII: mysterious member of the Organization, he appeared at the Castle not long after Marluxia failed to show up for his biweekly report (on the current status of his hybrid tomato plants, the largest of which he'd fondly dubbed Mr. Grubbs). XVII has yet to reveal his name, leading to rampant speculation amongst the other members, ranging from Xerryj to Gyxmith Oxemus. Current confidant to Xemnas, XVII's true motives have yet to be revealed — but certain members have noticed that he seems to be profiting greatly from the fundraising ventures he's talked their Superior into trying. All that's actually known about him is that he's fabulously rich, owns several lucrative businesses, and has several expansive vacation properties that no one in the Organization can afford to visit.

**return to Stage I  
**_howdya do, howdya do, howday do?_

**End Notes:**_ Am suffering aggravation. This part was written while housesitting (and dog-sitting, and Grama-sitting) my mom's place, in _WordPad_, on a screen I _could not see_. Grr. Part I'm currently working on obviously tweaked _Word_'s nose wrong, 'cause the program won't spell check. Period. It just won't. Double grr. So, since notes are written right before posting — this isn't checked. If it bothers you, you're welcome to a hank of my hair._

_Lesse, am busy making _Disorganization_ icons. So far got two:  
_calicodragon dot com slash IVamana dot gif  
_and  
_XIIIgrumpy dot jpg  
_If for some reason you want one of the ugly things, let me know: e-mail or review, 'kay?_

_Talkin' 'bout reviews! _Gogo-chan_, you're flat-out a beautiful person. This'll eventually wind down to an AU meeting with the _KHII_ story line, and I'm glad you noticed_ :) _It's not all fun and games… well, it is, but we can't_ really_ forget about Sora snoozing past his expiration date, can we? May I give you huggles? I feel the need to huggle. _AngelFlare_, I'm thrilled you're enjoying the story — but stories eventually have to end, otherwise they get stale and start to do nasty things on the carpet. There will be eventual sequel-age, but hardly no one will want to read it, 'cause it's serious and, uh… Yeah. _Ri2_, youse gots it! Not too big of a mystery; it's the best my lazy mind could come up with. You win a drabble! Tell me what you want. _Legnalos_ — come back with _my_ Demyx! I need him; can't write without him. Honest. _


	11. Stage I, Stage VI, Stage Left

**Disorganization  
****Stage I  
**_howdya do, howdya do, howday do?_

"It's an outrage! They tossed me out — me! — and now: Rage! I'm good at rage; why can't the others appreciate me for who I am?" Saïx crossed his legs (because he was sitting indian-style, and the leg-crossing is mandatory; otherwise, he'd be sitting with his legs sticking straight out — or kneeling. And Saïx kneels to no one — without appropriate kneepads. All those years of jumping high into the air in awesome displays of fury have been murder on his knees) and stared into the softly glowing magic box. "You saw the potential in me, Superior. You raised me above all others, except II through VI, and put me in charge of the dungeon because you appreciated my dedication to the cause."

"I put you in the dungeon because the walls there are sturdier. The NBCC started complaining about all the damage you'd been doing to their corridors." Xemnas, seated in his brand-spankin'-new sueded-leather recliner (throne by courtesy, if you please), didn't bother looking up from his hand mirror. "They threatened to walk out if I didn't rein you in. Can you imagine? Walk out! As if there's some great demand for Nobodies in the gummi ship industry. Feh." He ran his fingers through his (Pert Plus!) hair, giving it that extra bounce that made _him_ Superior to his flunkies. "Tell me, my loyal even if your hair is dyed VII: Why did you come here? I understand you were forcibly removed from the kitchen, but your prattle annoys me so."

"This meeting room is the only place in the castle that has functioning electrical sockets." Saïx rubbed at the scar crisscrossing the bridge of his nose (and considered asking Xemnas for use of his mirror; his concealer was most excellent at covering up various flaws in his complexion but was cursedly hard to apply by touch; he never got it blended right). "Mostly functioning. You need to talk to Xaldin about his habit of sticking his lances into them. I know he gets a thrill out of the tingle, but enough's enough. Some of us have blenders, you know, and I haven't had a decent mango smoothie in weeks."

"Your advisement is appreciated, my minion, but please remember the comment box hanging on the wall outside the next time you have a frivolous recommendation." With a practiced flick of his wrist he flung his hair artistically behind him. (It's called flair, folks; don't try it at home, or your family will laugh at you.) "I ask you again, Saïx: Why are you here? I understand your need — but it will take _hours_ to bake your cookies. Don't you have somewhere to be? Ducks to hassle? _Delite_ bars to sell?"

"Hours?" Saïx put down his scissors (and his _Modern Elf_ magazine, where he was busily clipping out pictures of the Worlds' Most Eligible Bean Sídhe ((which, really, was just about all of them, for if you've seen one bean sídhe you've seen them all, and _all_ were eligible 'cause who, really, would want one for a mate? The Superior yelled at him enough as it was)) to tape over the fuddy-duddy graffitied on his locker) and tapped the top of his magic box. "The recipe says they should only take twelve minutes to bake. Granted," he placed the palm of his hand directly on top of the magic box, checking the temperature (almost enough to warm, but not quite), "they've been in there forty-five minutes already — but they _must_ be close to being finished."

Xemnas blinked (prettily with a hint of fabulous) and whispered sweet nothings to his reflection in the mirror, endearments along the lines of, "We shall get our heart, my precious. Our heart of glass: _Adorable illusion, and I cannot hide_…" The ding from the magic box disturbed his contemplation. "What… Saïx? You're _still_ here? I thought I bid you be gone."

"No, you asked me why I wasn't gone _yet_," he corrected his employer cum slave-driver. "The answer to which was I was waiting for my cookies to bake. Alas…" With a look of utter misery (or bland acceptance, it's hard to tell which; boy does that concealer work wonders) he pulled out the cookie sheet from the magic box and poked at the globs of uncooked dough. "What am I doing wrong? Advise me, Superior. I cannot leave till I carry out your bidding, and your bidding was baked goods. I seem to be encountering difficulties in the baking stage of your diabolical plan."

"What am I to do with you, VII?" Xemnas descended from his throne (by means of pushing down the footrest and tossing off his down alternative throw) and approached his despairing underling. "How many times must I tell you: An Easy-Bake oven is _not_ the answer. I do not _care_ what the question was; the answer will never, ever, **_ever_** be an Easy-Bake oven. It's _pink_, Saïx. Cookies baked in pink ovens are a travesty. They offend me."

Pushing the miniature tray back into the magic box, Saïx closed the door and reset the timer. "Be that as it may… Why do they refuse to cook? Have I not appeased the Hasbro gods? Must I go out and sacrifice additional cake mixes?"

"For the voxel of…" Xemnas pushed the other man aside and opened the door of the (hideously pink) magic box. "You're trying to bake cookies with a forty watt bulb. Imbecile!" He reached in and unscrewed the bulb, pulling it out to underscore his point. "You need — more power. Much more power. Go you now to the Tool Man; he'll know what to do. And take your Easy-Bake oven with you."

Gathering up his magazines and (blunt point, no edge, completely child-safe) scissors, Saïx unplugged his magic box, and ruefully took back the bulb he'd stolen from IV — a bulb that was sorely missed by III, who'd had a heck of a time finding the butter for his popcorn; salt just wasn't the same. "I obey, O Boss-man. —And what shall I take to placate the Tool Man?"

"Must I do _all_ your thinking for you?" Xemnas raised a dainty, well-manicured hand to his forehead, and heaved an impressive sigh. "Take him… a roll of duct tape. Like us, it belongs both to the Light and the Darkness; he will know what to do with it."

"It shall be done." Oven under one arm and clippings clenched in both fists, Saïx bowed. "Tootles."

"Hmph." Making his way back to his cozy throne/recliner, Xemnas once more gazed into the mirror. "Mirror, mirror in my hand," he summoned the spirit banished into the silvered surface by one particularly vain Queen several decades ago. "Who's the finest cookie maker in the land?"

"Cookie maker? Can't say I've ever heard that request." The face in the mirror licked green-tinted lips as if in search of phantom crumbs. "Most unexpected. Of course, finest is a matter of opinion; Xaldin swears by Mrs. Fields; then again, I've heard wonderful things about that Keebler Elf enclave — though you may not be as impressed with their magic rainbow; you don't strike me as a Fudge Shoppe type of person. If I had to make a choice—"

"You do," Xemnas reminded the mirror, taking the opportunity to pick a piece of celery from his teeth.

"Err, yes. Well, my choice would be Famous Amos; he's right up your alley. Why, his motto is _It Takes Heart To Make A Great Cookie_. Apropos, is it not?"

He sat reclined with booted feet pointed towards the ceiling, mirror in hand and amber eyes staring blankly at the ruination of his dreams. "Could it be so simple? All my attempts at baking snickerdoodles futile due to my lack of heart? No…" He shook his head, and clicked the heels of his boots together. "There must be some other reason. No matter. Sorcerers!" he called his servants to attend. "Fetch me this Famous Amos person at once!"

"Ah, slight problem with that." The face in the mirror hunched — though it had no shoulders. "Famous Amos passed on, to Hawaii."

"Indeed, that is troublesome." He couldn't send his Sorcerers; they'd get caught up with the tourists, and come back lei'd — if they bothered returning at all, instead of joining the ranks of local surfers and environmental activists. "Has he a Nobody that I might call upon?"

"No… but he sold his interests to a Heartless corporation."

"Most excellent." He nodded to his Sorcerers, and reached for his universal remote. "You know what to do."

**Stage VI  
**_get down and pray to the oven_

They'd fought valiantly. And though there were no victors, only survivors, they couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment. Of pride. Of course, this was tempered by their weariness and their sense of being absolutely grungy, but as the old saying goes (as XVII had repeated endlessly throughout their ordeal): You can't bake cookies without cracking a few eggs. And counter tops. And let's not forget the marble rolling pin that had met its fate when Axel chucked it at Xigbar, who'd had the nerve to duck. (The Sniper that had been standing behind him holding a partially filled bag of powdered sugar hadn't been as alert; both it and the rolling pin had been swept out into the hall in pieces to be collected by the NBCC.)

"This is too cruel." Axel had shown up wearing dark glasses and a frown; losing his heart had not made him immune to hang-overs (though his Other appeared to be cured of them, as he imbibed hellacious amounts of alcohol and orange juice and always woke up his usual pugnacious self, hang-over and inhibition free). "This time Xemnas has gone too far. He took one of the few hobbies I actually enjoy — and turned it into _work_. And he purposefully planned it for after our night out. Nobodies aren't supposed to be good or evil — but Xemnas is the exception. He _likes_ making us miserable. Uhg." He pressed the cool ceramic of his mixing bowl to his head. "D, could you grab me some more ice out of IV? My pack's nothing but melt-water."

Demyx, busily icing his petits fours, scowled. "You should have thought of that before you made mincemeat outta Vexen."

Looking up from his tarts, Luxord pursed his lips then shrugged philosophically, resuming the delicate task of spooning mincemeat into the pastry shells. "Give the fellow a break, D; it's not every day a Nobody gets his heart _broken_."

"If I could open my eyes, you'd be **dead**." Axel winced from the sound of his own voice, the pained reaction causing him to stagger. "Kill him for me, Roxas. Please?" Reaching out blindly, he picked up one of the cookies he'd managed to remove from the aluminum sheet without breaking. "I'll give you a sandie. Two sandies, even. C'mon, be a pal…"

"Tempting, but no." Removing the cookie from the redhead's hand (and popping it into his mouth, 'cause, hey, pecan shortbread!), Roxas led him to the fridge and its convenient ice dispenser. "First it would be Luxord, then you'd ask me to whack Saïx, and pretty soon I'd have your esteemed title of Traitor. No, thank you. Ignore X, and you," he gave a warning finger-shake at Luxord (because finger-shakes are proven deterrents of aberrant behavior. Remember that the next time someone waggles one in front of your nose — and bite it), "behave yourself. Nobody likes a smart mouth. Um, that is," he sheepishly scratched his frosting-smeared chin (forgetting that he was the only thing keeping Axel upright, but he's a bright lad, and he'll eventually learn from his mistakes), "NoNobody. No — Nobody. Stop laughing!" he stomped his feet (and since he hadn't helped his roommate back up, Axel as well) and threw an ice cube Luxord's way. "We need a better set of pronouns. The ones Xemnas chose suck."

"That's why I stick with dude, little dude. It's way simpler." Xigbar was pleased with how his bars had turned out; he'd even cut them into triangles, though it made them harder to cover in plastic wrap. Always one to take that extra step, he was busily sticking nutritional labels on his wares (and as long as cannabis wasn't within the first five ingredients, caring mothers should have no complaints. Really, it was the HFCS they needed to worry about). "There're dudes, and dudettes, and D-dude, 'cause, you know, D-dude's _special_."

Turning around, Demyx tried his best to stab Xigbar with the lily nail he was using to shape decorative sugar flowers on. "I'm _sure_ your system has merits, geezer-dude."

"See? Everyone approves." Xigbar gently pried the lily nail out of the younger man's hand and licked the frosting from it. "I'll bring it up at the next meeting. How can our Numero Uno not love it? He's the pretty-dude, after all."

"Only because he rigged the contest." Axel used the edges of open drawers to pull himself up from the floor. "He's always cheating. Even now — we _paid_ our dues, and yet here we are, still victim to his asinine munny-making schemes. Twelve dozen cookies… That's a gross! He must go… XVII, he likes you well enough. Distract him while I sneak up behind him and—"

"Oh dear!" XVII squeaked, dropping his tray of peanut butter cookies. "As wonderful as that sounds, I don't know if _now_ is the best time to assassinate him. I mean — how do you know you'll be successful? If you failed, he'd be ever so mad — and suspicious. It would make my job of spying… Uh, spraying, yes, spraying for cockroaches much harder. Ahah…"

"True." Spotting a scurrying shadow, Axel squashed it beneath his boot — realizing a second too late that it truly was a scurrying Shadow, and not a roach (or even the Nobody of a roach). "I predict an infestation of them, once we're done in the kitchen. For this is the Castle Xemnas is Too Cheap to Hire Fumigators For." Lifting his refilled ice pack, he did his best to smother himself with it. "My head hurts. Rox, is my last batch done baking yet?"

"I guess." Taking pity on the redhead, Roxas removed the pecan shortbreads from the oven and placed them to cool on a rack (which wasn't actually a rack, but more of a screen destined for one of the windows overlooking the Creation Not Yet Ruined Passage loaned to them by the quietly laughing NBCC). "As soon as those set, I think we're done." He looked around the kitchen, nodding briefly to his fellow (Pastry Chefs of Darkness) Organization members. "That leaves us a few hours before we have to head down. I think I'm off for a nap. What about the rest of you?"

Furiously scrubbing his lily nail, Demyx blew bubbles away from his face. "I'll be sanitizing the kitchen, since Axel so kindly reminded us of our roach problem." Tossing the dishrag into the sink, he summoned a water form (that took one look at the dirty dishes and attempted to flee). "Clean, water. Clean! And what," he asked, fingers clawed menacingly, "will the rest of you be doing?"

"You're totally freakin' me out," Xigbar said, edging towards the door. "I'll be running away now. Later!"

Luxord, behind schedule due to casual tasting of his mincemeat (and if Vexen were in there, he was well-masked by the pleasant tang of citron and mace — perhaps the most palatable Vexen had ever been in his nonexistence), stretched his back, ending it in a casual hug, arm around his sudsy roommate. "I suppose I'll lend a hand, D. Least I could do — short of running away. What should I do?"

Demyx shoved (a) his arm off his shoulder, and (b) a towel into his hands. "Dry!"

"Oh. Umm… Yes. Drying now." Picking up a cookie sheet, he wiped at it desultorily before tossing it into the nearest cupboard, where it proceeded to drip on the shattered leaded-crystal punch bowl. "And you, Axel? What are your plans?"

"Well, they certainly weren't to be guilted into manual labor by _you_." Headache manageable (thanks to a few of Xigbar's extra-special bars, now with Methadone; Limited Edition, supplies are limited, get yours now), Axel ordered a nearby Creeper to take the shape of a dustpan (Wonder Twin powers activate: Form of a twig broom!). "But — I guess I owe D one. Or two."

"Or fifty-three?" Demyx asked, scraping burnt syrup out of a pot.

"Yeah, but who's counting." Wheezing a bit from the cloud of flour he was raising due to his lackadaisical sweeping, he turned to wave a melancholic good-bye to his roomie. "Sleep for me, will ya?"

Roxas watched them, friends by choice, roommates by Axel's uncontrollable pyro tendencies — and smiled. "Can do!" he said, downright cheerful, before skipping down the hall to their room.

**exit: Stage Left  
**_you said you could turn the darkness into light_

"Where are we going, Riku?"

"We're going nowhere," he told the girl clinging to his arm. (He'd tried to pry her off, but couldn't get the proper leverage against the crowbar.)

"Neat-o! We're going to visit the Organization! I've missed them." Naminé gave a happy little jump — then landed wrong, twisting her ankle, but she's a trooper and didn't miss a step. "Xaldin's the sweetest; he gave me all his snack cakes! Hundreds of nummies, all for me. But I'll share with you, Riku, 'cause you're the tall, brooding type that girls like me — well, like I'd be if I were real — can't help but give snack cakes to. It's instinct; can't fight it. Have a cupcake."

"…Thanks." He unwrapped the cupcake and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing it quickly in order to appease her. "But, you misunderstood. Yeah, I'm going nowhere to confront the Organization, but you're going nowhere, meaning — you're staying right _here_ out of trouble. I have to get DiZ's card back, and you'd distract me."

"Pish posh, silly; I'm _never_ a distraction. Besides," she leaned forward (mostly 'cause her ankle gave out, but partially 'cause she needed to see his eyes if she wanted to successfully hypnotize him into doing her bidding), "you _need_ me. **I** know who last had DiZ's card."

"You do? Tell me," he ordered. (He would have demanded a pita as well, but didn't think the girl could handle an order of that sort unless she was in her _Mad Greek_ uniform.)

"Nuh-uh. You're taking me with you, Riku. And we'll have so much fun! Demyx sings, and Luxord does the most amazing card tricks, and Saïx… Well, Saïx does a terrific impression of a lunatic. You'd swear he was stark-raving bonkers."

Riku, joyfully burbling girl tucked underneath his arm, fondly remembered the good old days when all he had to worry about was Maleficent's rants over golden plates.

**end Stage Left**

Naminé: a most unique Nobody, Naminé is neither part of the Organization nor a follower of DiZ — although she spends time with both. Master Manipulator of Memories, she's currently piecing together Sora's mind (which she'd made quite the mess of, too busy playing Jacks with Larxene to do a proper job of it at the time). It's taken longer than her original estimate; she blames her lack of progress on disturbances in the ether and karmic imbalances. DiZ blames her habit of running off to buy Pixy Stixs. Madam Leota, as we know, blames Roxas (for reasons she's keeping mum on, though rumor has it he looks a lot like the kid that made off with her crystal ball — rendering her homeless). A kind and gentle soul — because her Other has both her heart _and_ her body — Naminé enjoys her unlife and those she shares it with.

**return to Stage II  
**_what if my pockets are empty as can be_

**End Notes:** Heart of Glass_ — _Blondie_ (and I do believe Xemnas did the tune justice)._

_Icons are finished for all current _Disorganization_ members. I'll be working on Riku, Naminé, and DiZ as time permits. I'm _really_ happy with most of them, not as happy with Demyx (he'll be getting another) and Xaldin — because he had almost no decent screen time. Love the ones of Axel. If you want to use them, let me know through email or review, 'kay? Say _something_ about them! Or at least tell me where t' post them where others might enjoy them. _**I**_ like them…  
_**calicodragon (dot) com (slash) icons**

_I love the reviews! Thank you, thank you all who take the time t' brighten my life. _Gogo-chan_, you are officially huggled. I do try on dialogue; I want them to be true to their characterization (and not caricature-zation — too far) without going over the edge into meanness. I hope it shows; I've tried not to bash anyone. …That's still around, that is. _AngelFlare_, I know _**I**_ wanted more Organization. _Square_ didn't give them a fair shake, _and_ made them too sympathetic. _Ri2_, I should be getting your Pluto drabble to you tonight. A serious sequel is possible, because there's actually quite a lot serious going on here. You just can't see it through all the feeble jokes ;) And it's _all_ based on one particular thought I had: What if Riku refused to use the power of Darkness? Everything here stems from that little question, and the sequel would follow the ramifications._

_Those left wondering about Axel's Other: _Ri2_ got it, the answer's in the reviews._


	12. Stage II, Stage I, Stage II

**Disorganization  
Stage II**  
_what if my pockets are empty as can be_

"Different day — same lack of customers. Why does Xemnas insist on setting up in front of the Skyscraper? It's the same mistake all over again. Nobodies, Shadows, and _us_ as far as I'm willing to look up, which isn't far, true, since this guidebook is _so_ intriguing. Did you know there were Nobodies before our Superior? Only they didn't call themselves Nobodies — they claimed the term was derogatory — and instead insisted on being referred to as the Existentially Impaired."

"I remember them," Axel said as he casually tore the limbs off of gingerbread Shadows. "They used to hold rallies, but eventually they stopped trying: Nobody showed up." He popped an arm into his mouth and chewed (extra hard as the cookie made a valiant attempt at fighting back). "These are really good, Roxas. Why, they almost make up for you throwin' me to the cleaning squad. Thanks for that, by the way. Lots of intense manual labor really put the kibosh on the migraine; I didn't feel it at all after I passed out."

"The way you keep going on about it, a person would think it had been serious, but you were out for, what? A half hour?"

"Thirty-seven minutes!"

"Long enough for you to wake up feeling refreshed, and not all whiny." Roxas slapped away the other man's hand as it reached for another cookie. "And lay off the gingerbread. If by some astronomical chance a customer happens by, I've gotta have something left to sell 'im." Unlike Axel, Roxas had managed to get in several hours of dedicated snoozing — and he'd woken up perky and brimming with camaraderie. Angst, however, had met him coming out the door, and the demon had dogged his steps ever since (as a darling Yorkie that Luxord kept slipping mincemeat tarts to; X didn't subscribe to the whole Angst scene, but he voxeled fuzzy yappers from the depths of the sump pump he assumed kept the mist that doubled as his blood circulating, filling the vacancy in his chest left by his missing heart). "Are you listening to me, Axel? No one's going to buy headless gingerbread Shadows!"

"Then tell them they're headless gingerbread Horsemen." The redhead ate the cookie, wiped crumbs (or over-baked weevils) from his lips, and smirked winsomely — gloating over his inability to feel the slightest smidgeon of guilt. "Or… if I pull off their arms and legs as well, you'd have gingersnaps! I should get started at once — before that hypothesized customer of yours gets here."

Keyblade out and flashing (a shame he'd summoned Wishing Star; try as he might, he couldn't hit anything over a foot away with the diminutive blade) he placed himself between the voracious redhead and his tray of benignly malevolent and sweetly edible Shadows. "Back! Back I say, you wicked cookie monster!"

Across the street, Cookie Monster heard the warning and cowered, inching towards the alley that had spawned him. "_C is for Sadness, there's no cookie for me… Now what starts with the letter D? D is for Despair, there's no cookie for me…_" Whuffling mournfully he left (to once again attempt to learn the alphabet; curse that Big Bird for making his flash cards out of deliciously scrumptious cookies!) the World That Never Was to return to the World We Pray Doesn't Exist.

Axel easily held off the furiously swinging Roxas as he grabbed more cookies. "You know, that would be more effective if you could actually _hit_ me with it," he said, keeping the blond at arm's length by the simple expedient of a small wall of flame. (You could hardly notice it — if it weren't for the smell of scorched Angst, and Luxord's yelp as the hem to his coat caught fire.) "It's entirely your fault, anyway. You know ginger is my favorite."

"Yeah, I know…" Giving up (for the moment, but he had a razor back in their room that had an appointment with Axel's legs the next time the man came home drunk), he dismissed the Keyblade and tossed the useless keychain to a passing Dancer (who oohed and awwed and went to show all its friends the magnificent gift bestowed upon it by their huggable Liege before it turned the keychain into a pendant that made it the target of countless Heartless attacks and proposals). "Along with carrot cake."

"Only if it has pineapple." Lowering the wall of flame, Axel stepped over it and replaced the cookies he'd stolen (missing a few heads, and short a few clawed feet, but mostly untouched — if you ignore the fact that he'd discreetly licked their gingerbread backs — but no one had caught him, so ((according to Nobody reasoning)) it hadn't actually happened). "Hey, D," he called out (hardly necessary since the musician was, as always, just a table down), "any of those little doohickeys of yours carrot?"

"They're petits fours — and no." Demyx nudged his tray further away from Axel, on the off chance that the man might look for himself and notice the little cakes topped with confectionary replicas of neon orange carrots. "If you're so hungry, why didn't you eat your bowl of porridge this morning?"

"First: It was _porridge_. Answer enough. I'd rather gorge myself on crumbly wafers of bliss than choke down wholesome oats. I don't _do_ wholesome. Besides," he sorted through his own collection of shaped pecan shortbread, "Saïx was in charge of breakfast this morning, and he was all persnickety over getting tossed from the kitchen yesterday. Any of you notice how he kept muttering, 'More power…'? Über-creepy; guy doesn't _need_ any more power; what he should be getting is counseling. Barring that, a handful of downers wouldn't be amiss."

"Dude, Xaldin would miss them; trust me. He was, like, all up in my face earlier, askin' where his Ludes were." Messily eating one of his own special bar (in the shape of a triangle) cookies, Xigbar wandered over, leaving behind his table and the assortment of Nobodies quietly tripping around it. "Man was freakin', I tell ya. Guess the Superior forgot to tell him about the bake sale. He was all, 'Oh my gosh!' Only he sounded a lot — surlier, but there's little dudes present, if you know what I mean." He crooked an already crooked eyebrow at the younger members of the Organization. "Last I saw of him, he was ordering Lancers to squeeze eggs out of chickens. Not sure where they'll find the chickens," he drawled lazily (and admired the pretty pretty auras surrounding his friends) as he finished his treat, "but they were headed towards Atlantica. Maybe they'll find some of those elusive chickens of the sea, ya think?"

Luxord (his coat wisping smoke and the scorched Angst Yorkie proudly displayed on his table as barbeque — 50 munny per pound) accepted one of II's bars (figuring it could do little harm; his world was already filled with swirling colors and the Cheshire Cat he'd won in a bingo game in Wonderland; a few extra hallucinations would hardly be noticed, and there was always a chance they'd be more enjoyable than his standard delusions). "Even if Xaldin procures the eggs needed to make his meringues, they'll never bake in time. They need to sit in the oven over night. What do you think Xemnas will demote him to? XI? XII?"

"He did want to be the Savage Nymph," Demyx said thoughtfully. (With three of Xigbar's bars in his belly, he was rather disappointed that he wasn't seeing pretty colors — and he wasn't feeling particularly mellow, either. He was a bit curious, though, over the fractal butterflies settling on Roxas' head.) "I think it's because he's getting tired of hiding all those lances in his coat; they keep poking him in improper places."

"Maybe he'll fall to CD," Roxas offered, batting at the insects circling his head. "Shoo, 'flies, shoo!"

"Whoa! I didn't even know he was in a band." Pulling his graying hair back in a scrunchie, Xigbar pulled out a lounge chair and settled himself in for a round of gossip. "I knew we'd drifted apart—"

"Not CD; CD. As in… umm…" Axel scratched at his head (and was able to free his fingers from the tangle after a minute. There'd been no time for grooming after a night spent repairing the damage done to the kitchen — and he was really looking forward to an extra-hot grape-scented bubble bath come evening) as he tried to figure out what exactly CD stood for. "Okay, it's not compact disc, for sure. Certificate of Deposit? Cadmium, civil defense, the Democratic Republic of the Congo? Well, wouldn't that be peachy; we're stuck here like Girl Scouts, and Xemnas is assigning Xaldin to overthrow their government—"

"It's four hundred, okay? You can stop ranting now." While not gone, the butterflies had at least drifted a few feet away, lulling him into a false sense of security. Roxas, going by the principle of what's good for the goose, nabbed a shortbread cookie from his roommate and began picking pecan pieces from it. "Mighty impressive, though, you knowing the periodic table."

"Oh yes!" came a soft, breathy voice (panting from her mad dash from table to table grabbing up as many cookies as she could hold in her fists). "DiZ has a poster of it, hanging in his room; he's farsighted without his glasses; the old dear thinks it's his calendar, and he keeps asking Riku when they added all those extra days to the week and why the union allowed it."

"Naminé," Axel greeted her, his lack of enthusiasm not enough to deter her from taking a handful of sandies. "Imagine seeing you here. By any chance are you hiding a junk food sonar in that little slip of a dress?"

"Silly!" she giggled, and pulled an antenna out of her (not particularly busty) brassiere. "Of course I am! Along with my easel, my parasol, and my bull hide whip."

"That's — very interesting." And to his credit, Luxord _did_ look interested (but we'll not speculate on _why_ he was interested; no lolicon here, nope; Luxord's a paragon of some virtue or another — who just happens to be looking at yet another bit of fluff with interest of an undeterminable nature). "Think you could squirrel away eight lances? Manage it, and you could be our new III."

"Neat-o!" Naminé clapped her hands, and cookie crumbs carpeted the asphalt.

"I don't think so." Portaling in behind the blonde girl, Riku stepped forward, the yardstick currently substituting for his missing Keyblade held out threateningly. "Out of the way, Naminé."

"Oh. Can I go to Saïx's table, then? He's got double chocolate chunk cookies — with walnuts."

Riku briefly considered her request, then shrugged. "Yeah, okay, just get out of the way of my epic battle between the forces of Light and… Charcoal Gray."

"With aqua mid-tones," Demyx added, presenting the silver haired boy a lovely petit four decorated with a chartreuse-tinted lily. "Although we're getting ready to switch over to our Spring wardrobe. Saïx insists that plaid is the new black, but I'm sticking with silk moiré—"

"I need munny, Riku! Lots of munny for lots of nummies! Riku!"

"Arg!" Riku shook his head, and pulled at his long, gleaming (sparkle sparkle!) hair — gratefully accepting the scrunchie Xigbar handed him. "Enough. Naminé — wait. Roxas… give me back DiZ's credit card. Or else."

**interlude: Stage I  
**_the demons they have left you, you were not left behind_

Xaldin moped in the kitchen, slowly stirring a bowl of room temperature egg whites with the butt of a lance. The motor to the mixer had burned out, not that it mattered since all of the beaters were missing (or hanging from the chandelier — and _do not_ ask why there's a chandelier in the kitchen, it has to do with Axel's love of all things refractive and capable of igniting fires, however small). A touch of yolk had fallen in with the whites, as well as specks of shell, and even if, some how, some way, he was able to whip them to meringue perfection, he had no way to bake them, for the oven was being guarded by fierce, toothpick-wielding, unbaked gingerbread Shadows (along with their counterparts the gingerbread Nobodies, and the ghosts of weevils of holidays' passed).

"Why?" he beseeched his bowl of slimy egg whites. "Why doesn't anynobody like me? I share my snack cakes, and my popcorn — unless it's that no-account Xigbar. I'm pleasant, and articulate, and my deodorant hasn't failed in weeks." Sniffling, he shuffled across the tiled floor and pulled misplaced wintergreen breath mints from his sideburns. "Yet everyone's against me. Yesterday I spent hours listening to Xemnas prattle on about his new masseur — and not once did he mention the bake sale. I had to find out from XVII—"

"Oh, stop with the pity-fest," Xemnas admonished the other man as he reached into IV for a slice of fat-free cheese. "Look on the bright side: I didn't put you in charge of the cakewalk. Hmm…" Unwrapping the cheese-food, he sniffed it once then tossed it to the ground. "Come to think of it, a cakewalk sounds marvelous. I'm such a genius. III — there will be a cakewalk at the bake sale. See that it is done."

"But, Superior, no one made any cakes!"

"And that's my problem, how?" He smiled, and turned to walk out of the kitchen. "Oh, and Xaldin? No devil's food. It's _so_ cliché."

Xaldin moped, and occasionally blubbered, and continued stirring his egg whites. After a while, Angst (if you can't keep a good dog down, then you _really_ can't keep a demonic one down for long) came to join him, begging scraps and quickly demolishing the protesting gingerbread cutouts.

"I think," he told himself (or the bowl of egg whites, but _not_ Angst 'cause we all know what a blabbermouth he is), "I need to work on my resume. XVII said he'd hire me as a guide for one of his jungle cruise boats… as long as I shave my sideburns. How can I decide? How?"

**return to Stage II  
**_weary we are but fight on we must_

"…Excuse me?" Roxas faced his adversary, and tried to summon his Keyblade, but ended up with a handful of Xigbar's bars instead. "You're here — for DiZ's card?"

"That's right." Riku should have held the upper hand (the hand that's holding the yardstick, centimeters on the reverse side), but he mistrusted the sticky sweets being pointed at him. "And once I have it, I'm coming back to **_finish_** this, once and for all!"

"What _this_?" Demyx asked Axel curiously, gently scooting the butterfly off of his nose and letting it flutter free. "I don't think he's ever explained what he has against Roxas, though my guess would be Keyblade envy."

"Oh, that's right." Having overheard the comment, Riku added to his demands. "I want my keychain back, too. And stay out of the bakery; the pretzels are mine."

Roxas growled. "Why you—"

"Boys, boys!" Axel pulled them apart (and stuffed magical-mystery bar into Riku's mouth when he opened it to protest). "There's no need to fight. We haven't had DiZ's card for _ages_. Wish we did; it would've come in handy at IHoB. I gave it to Luxord."

Busily stacking mincemeat tarts into a tower of intimidating size, Luxord shook his head. "True, I had it for a while — but I'd already passed it on before our delightful dinner out. I gave it to Huggybear. He said he needed new ballet slippers—"

"Pointe shoes, dude; the _only_ slippers I wear are the Tigger ones D-dude got me for my Organization anniversary." Xigbar rolled his visible eye — then lifted his patch to roll the other one. "And I picked my shoes up at the studio. I don't have the card, man," he told Riku (who'd been choking on the unwanted bar during the entire conversation). "I gave it to XVII."

"What a coincidence." Demyx helpfully pounded Riku's back; years of lifting his sitar had given him amazing muscle strength and an unshakeable sense of rhythm. "Lux gave me the keychain, but the vibes coming off it were — icky. XVII had shown interest, so I traded it to him for a pin. A cool pin! Not, you know, a dorky pin…"

"XVII?" Riku gasped — having finally swallowed the bar. "You lie. It's Organization **_XIII_**. As in, thirteen members. DiZ keeps records."

"Oh, I'm new!" XVII walked out from behind his table (and it's no wonder no one's noticed him before now. He's shorter than the table, and he'd already eaten all the peanut butter cookies he'd laboriously baked; they'd given him a stomachache, and he'd been curled up trying to nap off his over-indulgence. So unless you'd bothered to check _under_ his table to catch sight of his beady, black eyes, you would never have known he was there) and stopped in front of Riku. "Hi there! Number XVII, at your service."

Riku blinked, and attributed the sight before him to the goodies baked inside the bar. "You're XVII."

"Yep!"

"Really…" The silver haired boy rubbed his eyes, and looked again (and when that didn't change the view, he pulled out his officially licensed _Great Mouse Detective _magnifying glass). "You look _exactly_ like—"

"Oh, pshaw, I get that all the time!" XVII laughed, and his nose twitched. "But I'm just an ordinary Nobody. Yes indeedy."

"Really…" Riku repeated doubtfully, but his sight was going funny and he could no longer swear to the identity of the black-coated mouse in front of him (and he was far enough gone to be considering checking for confirmation via underwear, and what might be written inside the elastic band). "…Naminé told me Roxas had everything — but that's obviously not the case. Well then, XVII: Return my Keychain and DiZ's card — or else."

"I'm afraid I have to choose 'or else'," XVII said regretfully. "I already sent those off with Plu… uh, Postage Due! That's it, I mailed them; DiZ should be getting them any time now."

"You did? Oh…" His yardstick drooped, then came back up into position. "Okay then. That means I can challenge Roxas now."

"With a yard stick? Please." Axel reached over and plucked the slim piece of wood from the boy's hand. "Give it up. You don't stand a chance. Even if you called on the power of Darkness—"

Remembering DiZ's latest scolding, Riku reached deep inside his very being (with metaphorical fingers, 'cause otherwise he'd be flat on the ground, dying and making a right nuisance of himself, and a mess for the local street sweepers to clean) and prepared to follow Axel's suggestion. "It's for Sora," he told himself quietly. "I can't face raisins, but this… _This_ I can do—"

"Wait!" Tired of his questions constantly being misdirected, Roxas tapped the other boy's shoulder. "The power of Darkness should be a last resort sorta thing. Maybe if you just _explained_ what you want, we could work something out." He gave a close approximation of a smile. "Let's start with a simple one. Who's this Sora that nobody and _no_nobody wants to talk about?"

**end Part II**

Xemnas: number I and Founder of the Organization, Xemnas is the Nobody of Xehanort, who was once apprentice (stymied assistant!) to Ansem the Wise, whose name Xehanort's Heartless stole and that Xemnas scrambled and tacked an X to for no other reason than he needed to use the letters in a game of Scrabble he was playing against Zexion — in utter defiance of the No Proper Nouns rule. Vain and vainglorious, he came up with a Plan to regain his lost heart — never thinking to look for it on Ansem the Wise's desk, where it was on display along with the hearts of Snow White (for the second woodsman obeyed his Queen) and the Grinch (whose heart had expanded to such proportions it had shattered his ribcage and did him in). It's not a particularly sound Plan, but it gives him plenty of opportunities to dress up — and it provides cheaper lighting than the street lamps down in the city.

**advance to Stage VII  
**_it's like we live in separate worlds_

**End Notes:**_ Cookie Monster's singing is a parody of _C is for Cookie_; both he and the song belong to _Sesame Workshop_ (I'm fairly certain — but don't quote me, please)._

Gogo-chan_, your reviews are always cherished. I completely understand being busy; I'm grateful you still found time to find nice things to point out about the chapter_ :) _It means a lot. The card confrontation was a bit — anti-climatic — but it leads to other (-even less climatic, shh-) things._ AnimeDutchess_, another glomp, just because. Thanks for looking at the icons! I had lots of fun making them, and I just wanted t' spread the joy of Saïx in an apron. _Ri2_, I'm sorry I can't do a drabble about Volcanic Lord; he's due to show up again near the end. Xemnas hasn't yet declared who's to take the place of V, XI, and XII (although poor Xaldin might end up with any of them). As for XIV, XV, and XVI… Naminé has a number (cause she showed up during a meeting one day), Riku got a number ('cause he had a coat — that's good enough for Xemnas), and DiZ got assigned a number when he snuck into the castle to _accidentally_ leave behind pages of his report. _Xemnas: You, Nobody in the red robe… Indeed, what a _bright_ red. We need more color around here. You're now XVI. Down on your knees! — and help me find my contact lens.


	13. Stage VII, Stage II, Stage I

**Disorganization  
Stage VII**  
_it's like we live in separate worlds_

They'd agreed to meet on neutral ground. What neutral ground consisted of was a matter of some debate. Roxas claimed there wasn't any more neutral of a color than white — and the Castle was the whitest place he knew of. Riku disagreed, saying that beige was _far_ more neutral than white — but admitted that the mansion was much more of a burnt umber, not to mention spooky, in disrepair, and lacking toilet paper. The discussion then stalled (as they discovered they both preferred two-ply, and that one-ply was the work of forces far more evil than the Heartless and Nobodies combined; not a major accomplishment, since by their very natures ((or lack of, as the case may be)) they're incapable of being _truly_ evil) before they decided to move the debate to the sheltering (and mouthwatering) confines of the bakery.

Pretzels in hand, they sat and munched and licked salt from their fingers. "Since we're here," Roxas said between bites, "and not dueling to the death, why don't you tell me about this Sora person?" He frowned as Axel, seated next to him, began banging his head against the table, squishing his chocolate chip croissant. "That's the reaction I get whenever I ask _any_nobody; it's getting really old."

"You don't know?" Riku was a bit uneasy sitting across from two sworn (by DiZ) enemies — but he was far more uneasy over Naminé leaning against side, eating éclairs with enthusiasm and the occasional belch. "Sora's… He's my best friend, for starters. At least, I think he is. DiZ says… well, he says lots of things, but I stopped listening to him a while back. See, Sora's currently — easy to forget." He stuck his pretzel into the caramel dip, swirling it around until it was covered. "And he… He's _yours_. I mean…" he sucked off the caramel and went to re-dip it — but was stopped at the last moment by Naminé's elbow in his side and hissed accusation of, 'Double dipper!' "You're **his** Nobody. And we need you to make him whole."

"…My Other? You're saying this Sora — is my Other?" He glared down at Axel, who had hidden his head under the dubious protection of his scrawny arms. "You _knew_, didn't you? All this time I've been asking, and searching — and you _knew_! I can't believe you, Axel! Why? I thought we were friends."

"Why?" One emerald eye peeked out from underneath the sleeve of his black coat. "Did you not _hear_ the man? They want to make _Sora_ whole, not you. If they manage it, you'd cease to exist. _Non_exist. You know what I mean. You — would — disappear, and there would go the best friend I've ever had. So, duh! Of _course_ I didn't want you finding your Other. —I don't want to lose you. I'm not _going_ to lose you."

"Oh." Feeling suddenly uncertain, Roxas picked salt crystals off of his pretzel (and tossed them over his shoulder, 'cause he felt he _really_ needed the extra luck). "That's… it's…" Unable to find the words, he shook his head, and sipped his orange soda. "I don't understand. You, you can meet your Other. All the rest of the Organization can, too; the ones that have Others, that is. What's so different about me? _Why_ would I disappear."

"Because," Axel said slowly, lifting his head and staring coldly at the silver haired boy seated across the table, "_they've_ discovered some way to _force_ rejoining. You wouldn't have the chance to _meet_ Sora — you'd just suddenly _be_ him, trapped inside him, and no one would see you, and no one would _hear_ you — ever again. But hey," he shrugged casually, wiping smears of melted chocolate from his forehead, "if that's your idea of paradise, don't let me stop you."

"Is that true?" Roxas asked Riku, his uncertainty solidifying into something he'd be tempted to label fear. "Is _that_ what you want from me?"

"C'mon, it's not like you were supposed to exist in the first place. Yeah, we need you to wake up Sora, but it's only fair; his condition is entirely the Organization's fault! Your side is responsible for turning him into some mindless—"

"Ah ah, don't go blaming _us_." Axel pointed a long, gloved finger at the girl in front of him (who was as chocolate smeared as he was, but not particularly minding). "That was all Naminé's doing. You want a culprit—"

"Hey!" Naminé spat soggy éclair into a napkin before she choked on it. "I only did it because Marluxia kept nattering at me! And then you tricked me into leaving it unfinished. Sora would have been _mine_ if you hadn't…" She blinked, and grinned weakly at the shocked expressions on the guys' faces. "Um, that is, maybe it's my fault an itsy teeny tiny bit — but I'm trying to undo it. Only, it's not going so well. That's why we need you, Roxas. It's _your_ lack of memories that are holding Sora's back."

The blond boy considered them: Adversary, friend, and groupie girl, all with differing stakes in the situation. "—I'll think about it."

"Think about it? And here I thought the whole purpose behind the Organization was to regain your hearts." Riku sneered (but it was ruined by the bits of bread stuck between his teeth). "This is your chance — and _this_ way, no one gets hurt in the process."

"Except me." Roxas stood, and pushed Axel out of the booth. "I said I'll think about it, and I will. You'll have my answer… soon." Tossing napkins and half-finished soda into the trashcan, he turned back around, his expression blank. "You've waited this long; a few more days won't hurt." Without waiting for an answer, he walked out of the bakery, Axel in tow.

"Not t' sound redundant, but… You'll _think_ about it? What's there to think about? There's got to be a better way of regaining your heart than what DiZ's offering." Pulling a wet-nap out of his sleeve, Axel cleaned up the remains of his croissant. "Tell me you're not seriously considering—"

Roxas reached up and stilled the redhead's protest with one finger pressed against his lips. "Ssh. They still might be able to hear us." Leading his friend down the sidewalk (empty of all except passing Nobodies busy with business of their own, or just out for an afternoon stroll to take in the damp, foggy air), he lowered his hand when he judged they were far enough away. "Not to sound like Naminé, but… Silly," he gently mocked. "What is there to consider? It sounded like they wanted to erase me, and I actually kinda like my _not_life — such as it is."

Axel's sigh sounded perilously close to a sob as he grabbed the boy in a fierce hug. "I'm _so_ glad to hear that. I've been worried…"

"That's not to say I'm not mad with you," Roxas warned (but didn't try to escape, because hugs are just plain nice, especially if you happen to be a Nobody, 'cause it means somebody cares). "If you'd told me — I could have done something about this a lot sooner. As it is, it's going to be a lot harder getting Sora away from them."

"Away from… Whoa." The red haired man took a step back, the better to see the devious thoughts flickering behind his friend's bland blue eyes. "Don't tell me you're thinking about kidnapping him. Riku wasn't exaggerating; the kid barely remembers his own name. He—"

"Is _exactly_ like me, then, when I first woke up in Twilight Town." The blond grinned (and there was an alarming edge to it; he'd made up his mind, and there's nothing that'd convince him otherwise). "I've turned out okay. He will, too. And it's not like Naminé won't be around to help; we'll invite her to come with us. You heard her: Where Sora goes, she'll follow." He patted the hand still resting on his shoulder. "You'll help me with this, won't you, Axel? He's my Other, my Heart. He belongs with me, not some hippie loser and yuppie has-been. Like Riku said, he's **mine**."

"Yeah, I'll help. Don't have anything else scribbled on my calendar." Axel rubbed at his nose, and held back a sniff. "So. What's your plan? How do we sneak into the mansion, get past the security devices, escape detection by DiZ, and get out with your Other?"

Roxas' grin grew (and cramped his cheek muscles, but he couldn't stop smiling, even though it hurt). "I didn't say we'd be sneaking in."

**return to Stage II  
**_in this game of survival, there's too many rivals_

Demyx carefully boxed the petits fours before handing them to Merryweather. "There you go." He stacked the newly empty tray on top of the others. "One for each of you, and I threw in an extra for old Sid; I know he never stops at one."

"Thank you, dear." The short, chubby woman flapped her wings, stirring a gentle, buzz-filled breeze. "Will we be seeing you at glee club tomorrow? We've missed you, these past few weeks."

"Things have been busy, what with Xemnas taking his dictatorship _way_ too seriously and assigning us these inane tasks. And I've got two new roommates. That's been — something."

"Oh dear, my dear. Not Axel again?"

He hmm'd deep in his throat, then spotted the intimidating (and meringue drenched) form of Xaldin heading his way. "You'd best be going; you _know_ how much number III hates fairies. Best if he doesn't catch you here."

"You're right." Clutching the box to her ample chest, she teleported out of the city in a shower of twinkling sparks and a bright, "Tah, dear!"

"IX — a word." Xaldin loomed over the musician's table, scaring away the water forms that had been playing hopscotch behind him, and dripping sugar-saturated egg white onto his clean trays (though he'd planned on washing them anyways, since they'd spent the day outside — and that's just the way he was).

Demyx waited for him to continue (and trimmed a hangnail, and finished proofreading Xigbar's _DUDE_ proposal), but eventually had to prompt him. "…And that word would be?"

"Cakewalk." He straightened further, and thus loomed less. "Our Superior, in his infinite wisdom, has decided that there will be a cakewalk held here today. As a sign of his faith, he's put me in charge of the event. And since I'm in charge, and am also _much bigger_ than you, as well as of higher rank… lower rank… that is to say — III, I'm delegating _all_ of my responsibility to you. See to it, then. Chop chop."

"Heh." The younger man crossed his arms (and held his concealed fingers ready to snap). "You've got the wrong guy. _I've_ sold all my petits fours. I don't think you're in any position to delegate. Go pester Saïx; I'm sure he'd love t' go berserk on your sorry…" His insult stumbled to a stop as he spotted the object Xaldin was carelessly manhandling. "—Is that my hat?"

"This? Why yes, yes it is. Amazing the trash a person can end up with by trading, isn't it?" Xaldin tossed the straw boater from hand to hand, crushing the brim in the process. "For example, I traded all of my snack cake collection for this _unimpressive_ and _useless_ little item. A foolish exchange I thought at the time, but now?" He smiled (not evilly, not goodly, but somewhere in between with his lips stretched wide enough to display the gap between his front teeth) condescendingly. "Now it appears I have a possible buyer. What would you give me for this trinket, IX? Better yet — what would you _do_?"

Stiffly uncrossing his arms, Demyx forced his hands to open from the tight fists they'd clenched in to. "The cakewalk."

"Yes, the cakewalk." He tossed the hat to the table, and ruffled the shorter man's hair. "I knew we could come to an understanding." He moved away (perhaps sensing his impending pummeling by a hoard of frothing water forms). "And no devil's food. It's — cliché."

Demyx picked up his hat, and tried (with a sad, wistful look on his face, but it's just a look, 'cause he can't actually be sad or wistful over a hat… could he? It's the material representation of his unlife's ambition, so yes you cruel doubters, he can) to bend the brim back to its proper shape. Instead, the straw cracked and unraveled, mocking his efforts. "_I don't know if You can hear me, or if You're even there_…"

"Ah, D…" Luxord, having watched the entire sordid bit of blackmail (for he'd been standing behind Xaldin making bunny ears), offered the musician a tart. "Don't take it so hard. You have your hat back — sorry for selling it, by the way; I swear I don't know what got into me — and I'll help with the baking, since — sold your hat, yeah…" He searched through his pockets while he tried to think of something comforting (that didn't leave him answerable for the fiasco) to say. "I — what's this?" In his hand there were roofing tacks, a miffed, unbaked gingerbread Shadow, the Triple Triad cards he'd won off Leon, and the postcard he'd received that morning from an old, dear friend. (Delivered by pigeon, it was several months old, but his friend was a bit of a traditionalist; pigeons were what he was used to, so pigeons were what he used, never mind that his letters consistently arrived late and smelling of uncleaned coop).

"I can hardly stand the suspense," Demyx said drolly, collecting his trays for the trek back to the Castle's kitchens. "I can't handle any more surprises today, Lux. I've got cakes to bake."

"But what if it's a pleasant surprise?" the older man asked as he quickly read the smudged and water (right, hope it's water but keep the anti-bacterial soap nearby just in case) splotched message. "I think it's high time you took me up on my offer of vacation. A nice, long vacation — with no forwarding address. If you catch my drift."

Raising one brow, Demyx let the trays clatter back to the table (or in the case of one particularly heavy sterling silver tray, clatter upon the head of a snooping Rabid Dog, silencing his sonic yaps). "You're talking about leaving the Organization. Do you have any idea what lengths Xemnas would go to, to punish someone he deems a traitor?"

"Could it be any worse than what he's already done? Look at us; we're selling cookies. And to what purpose? Have you seen any recent construction going on in the castle, besides the never-ending repair work? And yet his Superableness has been wandering around with brand-new orichalcum earrings. I've had enough… and I think you have, too. I've been invited to manage the casino on a friend's airship. An _airship_, D. You know as well as I that we can't portal onto something moving that fast — and neither can Xemnas."

"A casino?" The musician stared at the other blond, trying to gauge his sincerity. "That'd be perfect for you, but there's no place for _me_ in a casino."

"No, but there's a lounge attached." He smiled (and still no one commented on his amazingly white teeth, but a nearby Gambler gave him a thumb's up) and stuffed the postcard back into his pocket. "I know it's not what you've dreamed of, but ask yourself, D: Will you _ever_ make it into the Dapper Dans as long as you hang out _here_?"

"…That's harsh." In one swift motion Demyx pulled off his black coat (and are those things tear-away, or what? No one ever unzips them, they just yank and _woosh_) and let it fall in a crumpled heap at his feet. He then picked it up and _jumped_ back into it 'cause he'd only bothered putting on boxers that morning. "You've convinced me. _Anything_ to get away from the kitchen. But what about Roxas? …And Axel."

"We'll send them a pigeon-gram once we're settled in; let them know we're okay."

"And Xigbar?"

"Xigbar?" Luxord shook his head (and his own pair of orichalcum earrings chimed sonorously against their golden counterparts). "I do admit that I wasn't thinking about him. Huggybear!" he shouted to attract the graying man's attention. "D and I are ditching the Organization for greener pastures, ruby sunsets, and free drinks. Want to come with?"

"Dude, you're leaving?" Staggering to his feet (and taking care not to step on his hallucinations; make-believe caterpillars can leave a horrible mess on the soles of your boots) he made his way over, the last of his bars tucked safely away in a plastic baggie (53 grams, in case you're curious). "D-dude too? Man, I was _wondering_ when someone would get the cojones to skip out on this sideshow. I don't even hafta know where we're goin', just as long as we're _gone_. Hey, Saïx! Tell Xemnas that next time, he can bake his own goodies. We're outtie."

"Outtie? What do you mean… You can't expect me to tell him…" Saïx trailed after the departing trio (and his entirely too heavy claymore dragged behind him). "Where are you going?"

Walking while strumming his sitar presented no obstacle to Demyx. "_I had strings, but now I'm free_… So long, Saïx. I'd say it's been a pleasure, 'cept you're a fuddy-duddy. And I'd say it's been real, but we're Nobodies; gotta exist to be real. I'd even say later — but I really hope not. Oh. I also left a meatloaf for you in IV, all it needs is reheating. Take care!"

**return to Stage I  
**_it rips right through me, how you lie right to me_

XVII nervously approached the recliner, fighting the urge to kneel (and sniff for breadcrumbs). "S-superior, I bring — bad news."

Lowering his mirror, Xemnas frowned — then remembered it would cause unsightly wrinkles, and smoothed his face to impartiality. "You do no such thing. You bring me wonderful ideas, and cotton candy. Once in a great while you'll even bring napkins from Club 33. But not bad news. There _is_ no bad news in this perfect World I've created."

"Riku told Roxas about Sora."

"He did?" With a pout Xemnas sat up in his chair the better to glower at his underling. "But I was looking forward to that! Well, it makes no difference. Soon the Keyblade Master will awaken, and my glorious Kingdom Hearts will be complete. Now that Roxas knows, my Plan can proceed."

"Sir, with all due respect, it can't. Roxas didn't go with Riku."

"No?" He sat, and pondered, and looked for answers in his magic mirror. "How could that be? Did not Riku use the power of Darkness to subdue him, sling our darling XIII over his ruggedly masculine shoulder, and cart him off to that slummy mansion to have his wicked way with him?"

"No. And, uh…" XVII wished he were any place else — but he'd been having too much fun chumming with the Organization to think of leaving. "Well, I might as well just spit it out. II, IX, and X have left. They wouldn't tell Saïx where, but Xigbar packed all of his serapes."

"Ah. Clearly they have thought of new and clever ways to earn munny. I'll expect them shortly."

"They said they're never returning—"

"Lies! Nothing but lies! _Why_ do you lie to me, XVII? Have I not give you position? Honor? Flexible health benefits?" Xemnas stood, then fell back into his chair, prostrate with grief. "My minions would not betray me. Be gone from my sight, you measly Dusk. I have no further use for you."

"…Okay." Shoulders hunched, XVII (no longer) backed out of the room to the hallway beyond. He then perked his ears, and trotted off towards his room. With any luck he'd be out of the castle with his duffle bag of munny before Xemnas thought to ask for it.

**end Stage I**

DiZ: scientist, statesman, and sometimes used car salesman, Ansem the Wise (tired of a World that didn't meet his expectations) started his own Kingdom, on his own World, named (DiZ Eee! Land, DiZ Eee! World, and DiZaster before his loyal subjects pulled him aside and told him to get a grip) Radiant Garden. Along with his apprentices he began studying the nature of hearts. To his alarm he soon learned that the study of hearts (or the Red Bulls consumed during said studying) had a negative effect on a person's moral fiber and mental well-being. His apprentices — tired of _being_ apprentices — trapped Ansem inside a World of Darkness. (Scholars cannot agree if the world was genuinely Dark — or just couldn't pay its electric bill.) Escaping after an unspecified while, Ansem, now DiZ, vowed revenge on his apprentices — then promptly traipsed back to the World of Darkness to find them, ice cream in hand.

**exit Stage Right  
**_without you i can't feel my soul_

**End Notes: **God Help the Outcasts_ — lyrics by Stephen Schwartz. _I've Got No Strings_ — lyrics by Ned Washington._

_Reviews make me giddy! _Gogo-chan_, your review made my day! (Um, night — and the next morning, too.) My best guess as to why there's so little Xaldin love is that he hardly got any screen time — and most of that was with Belle. _Belle_ took him out — and then he has the nerve to trash Sora and company? Not right. That must be it_ :) _Few people like Xaldin 'cause of his Cheese factor. Learn learn learn! Not much Xaldin love this part — but at least he got out of baking sponge cakes._ AngelFlare_, Riku's hair is an entity unto itself. Sure, he was trapped in Darkness — but look at his hair! It _obviously_ stayed in the Light.__ I should get some cheapsy award for updating: Three times a week since the first post. I'm diligent! _AnimeDutchess_, I'm glad you liked the icons. I'm thinking of making a claim at _iconfiend100_; that would be fun (and work!). _Ri2_, it's hard for me to pity Riku when he's _so_ much prettier than me_** :D **_As for explaining his (and Namé's and Handsome Ansem's) numbers — I could never figure out _where_ to do it. A section just to explain didn't seem to fit, either. Maybe in the very endnotes?_


	14. Stage Right, Stage I, the Wings

**Disorganization  
Stage Right**  
_without you i can't feel my soul_

"What a dump." Roxas was less than impressed with the mansion. Sure, it was surrounded by ancient forest, but the forest was neither dark nor foreboding (mostly due to the lustily chirping bluebirds, the lambent-eyed squirrels, and Vivi toddling around occasionally tripping; clumsy miniature black mages can brighten the gloomiest atmosphere, and are the bane of evil warlords everywhere — ask Kuja). And while the shattered columns and broken statuary hinted at neglect, a person couldn't help but notice that most of them had been emblazoned with unicorns. Extraordinarily pretty unicorns. It was easy to see _why_ the marble was vandalized. Unfortunately, the ne'er-do-well had given up before the artworks were rendered unrecognizable.

"What did you expect? They're too busy harassing us to clean up the place themselves, and DiZ is too cheap to hire a cleaning service." Axel's mood was volatile (no surprise) but he was trying to maintain a calm façade; they'd hardly succeed in their mission if he went in with hands blazing (although if he could talk Roxas into changing their mission parameters to complete fiery annihilation there'd be no fear of failure; _that_ he had covered). "You know, you still haven't told me how you plan on getting us in."

The blond nodded absently. "The less lead time you have, the less chance there is of you making a complete mess of it." Ignoring his friend's outraged squawk, he walked up the path to the tiled entryway. Then, taking a deep breath, he raised his arm — and rang the doorbell.

"What? That's it? Your great plan is to _let_ them know we're coming?"

"Yup." Ringing once more (_why do birds suddenly appear_… — thirty percent off at Señor Ding-Dong's, get yours today) he waited patiently for someone to answer the door.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming," came DiZ's strained voice (for he was taking the stairs leading up from the laboratory two at a time, except for when he missed and slid up four at a go). "Wretched Jenovites; I've told them I'm not interested in their Calamity—" The door cracked open, and a golden eye surrounded by wrinkles peered out. "What in the Worlds?" The door was flung wide, and DiZ stormed out, forcing the two Nobodies to step back (or deal with DiZ's liver and onions breath). "What are you foul miscreants doing here on my porch? Be gone, I say! Back to the Darkness that spawned you, unnatural creatures of…" He paused (both because he'd finally gotten a good look at his visitors, and because he hadn't recovered from his mad dash up the stairs; please pay no heed to the inhaler he's puffing on, it ruins the dramatic moment). "Is… is that you, Roxas?"

The boy twitched his lips — but didn't smile, because the old reprobate wasn't worth the effort. "Yes."

"How wonderful! Come in, come in; the lab's entrance is in the library, just give me a few minutes to get the program running and I'll have you zapped into Sora in no time. Hurry along, now; ignore the unicorns, they're not mine—"

"Actually, DiZ — not that your _zapping_ doesn't sound _terrific_ — we're here to see Naminé." Roxas pushed past the old man, dragging a gaping Axel in behind him. "She's always traveling to the city to visit, we figured we'd return the favor."

"Um, yeah," Axel added, as his roomie unobtrusively stepped on his toes. "We thought we'd drop in, reminisce over the Nobodies we've known and betrayed unto their deaths…" He smirked — because the former ruler current shut-in was _so_ worth the effort. "So, is she home?"

Doing his best to flare his red cloak ominously but only managing to twist it around his ankles, DiZ gave a single disgruntled groan (that sounded suspiciously like _blasted teenybopper_) and closed the front door. "Yes, she's home. Naminé," he shouted up the staircase, "the minions of Darkness are here for you. You know, Roxas," he said in a milder tone of voice (but not all that quietly, for he was getting on in years, and his hearing wasn't what it once was), "it would be virtually painless. I'd just shove you into my amazing Dissolvomatic — patent pending — and you'd be reunited with Sora. That, or vaporized, but really, either way you'd be gone, so what does it matter?"

"Roxas! Axel!" Disdaining use of the stairs, Naminé positioned her rump on the banister (immodest, yes, but all the males in the house were polite gents and did not look up) and slid down to the foyer. "What a surprise! Are you in Town long?"

Removing the wickedly sharp edge of Oblivion from DiZ's throat, Roxas gave the exuberant blonde girl a twitch of his lips, because she was _almost_ worth the effort, but not quite. "Actually, we're here on business — and I'm not sure how long it will take. I hope you don't mind us showing up without notice, but it's hard making calls from the next World over."

"Not at all," Naminé's assurance overrode DiZ's surly, '_A little warning would have been nice._' She glomped the two young men, burbling the while. "It's so boring here, you know? Sure, Riku brings me back coloring books and lottery tickets, but mostly I'm stuck up in my room trying to figure out _what_ I did to Sora's mind… Want to play Scrabble? I know we've got a board around here somewhere." She patted her dress to make sure the game hadn't been misplaced in her lingerie (and looked decidedly disappointed when she didn't find it therein). "Oh! Where are my manners? You must be hungry; guests are always hungry. Would you like something to drink? To eat? I know! DiZ, go down to Town and pick up some ice cream, would you?"

"Ice cream?" Cheeks puffed, DiZ was on the verge of saying something distinctly un-Teen. "You want me to leave you alone with two dangerous blackguards — not _your_ fault Roxas my lad, I'll have you fixed in a jiffy — while I run off to pick up ice cream?"

"Yeppers! Now off you go. Remember, I don't like walnuts." Ignoring the man's protests, Naminé pushed DiZ out the front door (all the more impressive once you realize she never bothered opening it, but she's got a powerful ice cream hunger, and it makes her — powerful. Otherwise it would have been a _craving_, and that door would still be standing. Either way, DiZ would have wound up with a mighty sore nose). Mission accomplished, she beamed at the two Organization members. "You don't mind waiting for nummies, do you? Gosh, it's _so_ good to see you guys!"

"Nah, we don't mind. See, our business is here." Roxas peered through the splintered wood that had once been the front door to make sure that DiZ was actually gone. "I've come for my Other, Naminé. For Sora. I don't know what you and that kook are doing to him, but he belongs with **_me_**. Will you take me to him?"

"Oh! I don't… that is… Riku and DiZ would be _ever_ so mad." She bit at her lower lip, then thought better of it and popped in a peppermint. "But you're right; you deserve the chance to know him. Only — he's not himself. His memories are totally wonkered, and no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to get them chained back together. You'd have to look out for him, Roxas, all the time. He'd be like a little kid — only he's not. Are you sure you want that kind of responsibility?"

"I'm sure." He nodded, and accepted a peppermint. "Together, we can get through it. Besides, I've got Axel to help me. What could go wrong?"

"He could wander out into traffic, turn into a Shadow, womp us with his Keyblade, eat the last piece of crunch cake, bring home stray kittens— What?" Axel returned the Look his friend was giving him. "You asked. Sure, it's all worst-case stuff; I mean, can you imagine me cleaning a litter box? Not gonna happen. But then he'd use that woobie face of his, and next thing I know I'd be asking for the scoop…" He couldn't maintain the Look, and was forced to physically turn aside. "I _know_ him, okay? You have _no_ idea what you're getting yourself into. But hey!" he placed a gloved hand at the small of the blond's back and scooted him in the direction of the library. "I gave you my word; I'm in this with you. So let's go get him."

Naminé led them into the library and doodled on the varnished tabletop with her aqua crayon to activate the secret passage to the laboratory below. "I don't know why he set it up this way," she complained to them as they navigated the stairs (slick with the grape soda DiZ had spilled during his hectic dash to open the door). "He's always yelling at me for coloring on the walls, and yet it's acceptable to deface antique furniture. What kind of message does that send, huh?" They walked past the computer/fish tank/DDR machine into a storage room that had recently been emptied, if the dusty outlines of boxes were to be believed.

"Whoa, it's the lava lamp." Axel examined the rather pathetic figure chained against the far wall on top of a pile of panting Icy Cubes. "What's he doing down here? Not that he doesn't go with the décor; lava lamps go with anything, even barren subterranean chambers, but it's not like you need light down here. The floor glows."

The blonde girl passed the shackled Volcanic Lord, patting him affectionately on his domed head once she was close enough. "Riku was all for tossing him out, or donating him to the Sal, but Madame Leota said he'd come in useful in the future. She specifically mentioned this room; said there's going to be some fiery duel in here one day, and he'd be needed to pull off the special effects. She's strange like that. I guess being a disembodied head living in a Sparklett's bottle finally got to her. DiZ believes her, though. This way."

She led them into the hallway beyond; the very white, very sterile hallway, where bud-shaped pods containing creatures both mundane and wondrous lined the left-hand wall. "That duck isn't wearing any pants," Roxas whispered to Axel, his tone offended. "I don't know which disturbs me more — his lack of pants, or that I _noticed_ his lack of pants."

"That's Donald; mediocre wizard, hangs out with Sora," the redhead said, tapping at the pod's acrylic casing. "Nasty bit of work. Horrible temper — and I never could understand a thing he quacked. Next to him's Goofy, fancies himself a knight. He's a lot more pleasant than the duck, though. Can hold up his end of a conversation, if you can get past his 'Gawrsh' — which is a bit more tolerable than, say, silly…"

"Axel, you big silly!" Tapping out the entrance code on the keypad (8675309, because DiZ, who couldn't remember his dentures when they were sitting on the bathroom counter, had no trouble recalling the delightful Jenny, boon to lonely nerds everywhere), she waggled a free finger at him. "Donald and Goofy are charming — critters. It's kind of sad, really; if you take Sora out of stasis, they'll never regain their memories, and they'll hafta remain in cold storage forever. On the bright side, I owed Donald twenty munny…"

"Yeah, I don't see a downside." The door swished open (Riku was in charge of sound effects, but DiZ had final say, and he had vetoed the silver haired boy's first recording of, 'Move your lazy ass!') and they went into the room beyond. "Lesse," Axel rubbed his hands together (and the leather made funny squeaky sounds that made the blonde giggle), "white, white, and more white. You really need to see color consultant, Naminé. Get yourself some pink dresses, blue pants, anything." He approached the large bud/pod/cryogenic chamber on display in the center of room. "Guess this is it. Now how do we open it?"

Summoning his Keyblades (key chains pulled by random from his pockets: Crabclaw and Pumpkinhead, they made him peckish for seafood salad and a piping hot, butter-slathered slice of Demyx's pumpkin bread; they also made him feel ridiculous, thereby proving beyond a Shadow of a doubt that he _had_ a heart — sitting in an improvised freezer right in front of him), Roxas dashed up to the pod/thingummy and waited for the mystical green triangle of all possibilities to appear. When it did, he bashed it. "When in doubt," he told the other two, smacking the sparking machinery again for good (or evil, we're really inclined to believe this time) measure. "Ha!"

With a groan the petal-shaped panels of the thingummy/doohickey gave way, crashing to the ground in a satisfying testament to the power of the Keyblades. Inside, the Gravity spell (pure speculation; it could have been an anti-grav platform keeping him afloat, or pixie dust, or helium. Oh yeah, helium; it makes balloons float, right?) unraveled, and Sora fell to the (sharp and pokey with all those destroyed panels) floor.

Tucking his key chains back into his pocket (before he remembered to dismiss the blades; he'll be busy tonight with the needle and thread), Roxas jumped forward — but not in time to catch his Other, 'cause has already been noted, Sora _fell_ and gained all sorts of fascinating scrapes and bruises. Kneeling, he gathered the limp boy into his arms, and tried to gently shake him awake. "Hey," he murmured, patting Sora's cheek. The lack of response wasn't enough to diminish the brilliant smile Roxas bestowed upon Axel — who had _always_ been worth it (but he'd never before been close enough to his Heart to _feel_ it). "It's **him** — my Other. I got my Heart back."

"So you did." And if Axel hadn't've known otherwise, he would have sworn that his own Heart was singing (which he just happened to be doing at the moment; _Cur poenam cordi parvo damus?_ over a pint of Tifa's finest). "Best get him up; DiZ'll eventually come back, and who _knows_ where Riku is; _he_ won't let us casually stroll out with his best friend."

Naminé wiped her teary eyes on a handkerchief she'd pulled from Axel's sleeve, then blew her pert button nose. (Reunions always made her cry; the same for weddings, and funerals, and department store openings.) "Riku's off looking for you, Roxas; he swore he wouldn't return until he'd squeezed you into submission." She acknowledged the redhead's snort with a tilt of her head. "Well, that's what he _said_. But DiZ is another matter entirely. He never dallies when he's out for ice cream; he can't abide it once it's melted. There isn't time to wait for Sora to wake up on his own. We'll have to carry him."

"We?" Axel asked, already lifting the unconscious boy in preparation of tossing him over his shoulder. "Don't tell me you're coming with us."

Unable to let go of his Other, Roxas kept a tight grip on Sora's hand. "Of course she's coming with us; we already discussed this. The only thing left to decide is where to go from here. I don't think the Castle's the best place to stay; Xemnas's been creeping me out lately. Any ideas?"

"A few." Opening a portal, Axel gave an incredulous chuckle. "The things I do for you. If you weren't ('the best part of my soul' hovered at the tip of his tongue before he quickly swallowed it down) my best bud… Are we ready to go?"

Three Nobodies and their burden of a Heart left the white (and rubbled, and just now catching on fire) room, while DiZ's voice bellowed out from upstairs, "I'm home! Who's ready for some Sea Salt ice cream?"

**return to Stage I**  
_i don't want what you want, i don't feel what you feel_

He'd called for XVII to attend him — then remembered he'd dismissed the diminutive Nobody for reasons he couldn't be bothered to recount. He'd then tried summoning other flunkies (ascending order, but he couldn't quite recall what X stood for, and was eventually reduced to shouting their names from room to room). In the end, Saïx and Xaldin stood in front of him, Saïx peeved over the interruption to his quality time (which centered on _Modern Elf_, and its centerfolds of breathtakingly beautiful architectural designs) and Xaldin, apprehensive over the cancelled cakewalk.

"Not that I don't — appreciate — you," Xemnas said slowly around his mouthful of Caesar salad, "but where are the rest of my peons? I have a glorious new Plan that involves shoe shining."

Saïx looked up from his magazine, and ran his finger along the outside edge of his pointed ear (and pondered the possibility of putting clothespins on the tips to stretch them longer). "I thought XVII had informed you of II, IX, and X's desertion."

"He might have mentioned something to that effect." Tossing back the short strands of silvery hair that obscured his vision, Xemnas checked his eyeliner in his hand mirror, carefully wiping away a tiny smear. "You know how busy I am; how can I be expected to keep up with the day to day minutiae? And what of the others?"

Hands covered in chocolate sandwich cookie crumbs and lips frosted with Stuff, Xaldin shuffled forward but refused to make eye contact. "VIII and XIII have disappeared."

Xemnas gasped at the news (and admired his expression in the mirror). "How horrible! Gone without a trace—"

"They left going away presents," Xaldin cut in, wiping his hands clean on the front of his coat. "I got a toaster oven, and I think there's a snow globe waiting for you in the Hall—"

"Without a trace!" Xemnas insisted, a touch put out that his underling had dared question his judgment. "And the others? I'm sure there used to be more of you underfoot."

"Uh…" Saïx glanced at his Superior from underneath lowered lashes — and wondered. "They were killed some time ago, during that whole Oblivion screw-up."

"Not _all_ of us," Zexion reminded them sharply — but no one paid him any heed; Xemnas had declared him dead, and who were they to argue?

"All of them? A pity. A moment of silence for our departed comrades — yes, that should do it, they weren't _that_ important." He tucked the mirror back up his sleeve and pulled out a tin of shoe polish. "Now then, since there are new vacancies in our ranks… Saïx, you're II. And, uhm…" He scratched on itch on the tip of his nose to cover his frown. "You, with the sideburns; are you new?"

Xaldin collapsed in on himself and sat on the floor, bawling.

"What did I say?" Xemnas wasn't _concerned_, but it wasn't everyday grown men broke down in his presence (though, in his opinion, it should be a _far_ more common occurrence — he was magnificent, after all). "There, there now; buck up. You can be III. How does that sound?"

Xaldin cried harder.

**exit to the Wings  
**_meet me halfway, across the sky; make this a new beginning of another life_

He gradually opened eyes gritty with too much sleep; rubbed at them with fisted hands to work the stiffness out, and yawned. In his field of vision was a tousled blond head, and blue eyes that for one brief, startling moment seemed familiar. The sensation faded, but he didn't mind. "Hello," he said softly, playing with the word, running it along the backside of his teeth (that needed brushing; the image of a toothbrush was prominent in his mind, he just couldn't remember the word).

"Hi!" The blond smiled, and held out his hand. "We meet at last. I'm Roxas."

He hesitantly returned the clasp; was buoyed by the warm grip against his cold fingers. "I'm…"

"You're Sora."

"Sora…" Out of habit too deeply ingrained to ever be lost he rubbed at his temple. "Yeah. I'm Sora."

**leave the Wings**

The Organization: Brainchild of Xemnas, the Organization was once a group of incomplete people wanting to become whole. It failed, in part, due to various members discovering the shocking truth that they could have fulfilling lives if only they went and _looked_ for them. Current enrollment is down to three, though the group is actively recruiting. There's difficulty in finding replacements, as Xemnas tends to dismiss applicants arbitrarily (but mostly because they aren't pretty enough to share the same air as him, let alone stand in the same room). Scholars question the future of the Organization — especially since Riku's vowed to hunt them down, one by one, until he finds the one that orchestrated the kidnapping of his bestest-even-if-comatose friend.

**stay for the Curtain Call**  
_turn the pages, read for hours, it always comes to a close…_

**End Notes:** Close To You_ — lyrics by the _Carpenters_. Latin translation: Why do we provide punishment to our weak hearts? _The Promised Land_ — lyrics by Tetsuya Nomura. Epilogue is all that's left, then I'm taking a wee break :D _

_Beautiful reviewers! _Gogo-chan_, I'm glad you felt the mix of serious and silly worked. I wasn't too sure about it (and I'm still not). This part had it even worse; it's hard fitting the silly in, but it _was_ the focal point of the rest of the fic, so it sorta _needs_ to be there. I get such a kick reading about what you think worked. It's the biggest downside of finishing things up: No more of your reviews! _AngelFlare_, you got the owner of the airship exactly right. (And whenever I think of the boys on the airship the _Teddy Ruxpin_ theme plays in my head o.o This is so wrong.) And I'm glad you liked the icons; I had a lot of fun making them. _Ri2_, Madame Leota is currently in the water cooler — and she doesn't like working. We'll hafta replace IX with automatic sprinklers. II — how about a laser light show? (Although I'm really working on talking Crush into taking his place. Dude!)_ Doomboy2000_, your reviews made me laugh. Really,_ really_ big laughs._

_Thank you all so much for staying with this story till the end. I love ya'll._


	15. Curtain Call

**Disorganization  
Curtain Call**  
_turn the pages, read for hours, it always comes to a close_

DiZ sat in front of his aquarium and (cross out sulked and threw a hissy fit) contemplated reversals in fortune. His, specifically. His functional monitors (few and far between, as the rest had been burned out by countless hours of Pong) showed nothing more than hissing static and the flat-lined vitals of a patient no longer in his care. Sora was gone, and with the boy had went all of his long-nurtured hopes of revenge.

Naminé was missing as well. Her room remained untouched; coloring books strewn across the floor and crayons scattered across the table — she hadn't packed her belongings, hinting that she hadn't had time to do so, leading him to the conclusion that she hadn't gone of her own free will. But it wasn't a scenario he could believe in for long: Naminé was a Nobody, and a Nobody couldn't be held against their will. Their ability to portal saw to that.

And Riku, wild-eyed with lips stretched to thin whiteness, had taken one look at the demolished cryogenic chamber — and snapped. There in the smoke-stained white room he'd taken a most terrible vow, then he too had gone… and left DiZ alone.

He didn't like the silence. He didn't like the mansion and its accusing bas-reliefs of unicorns, its deterioration, its subtle reminders that not so long ago — he'd had company. So he packed his own bags (and how much did it say about his accomplishments, that everything he couldn't bear to part with fit neatly within two suitcases with room to spare for his fluffy down pillow?) and left the mansion, not bothering to lock the door behind him (for he'd broken the lock beyond all repair when he'd first taken possession of the property).

There were other Worlds, places where he could make a fresh start, and, perhaps, find some other reason to keep on with his meaningless existence. At the very least there were the brochures of a nice retirement community tucked away inside his cloak; people of his age, and his sensibilities — and a race track just a block away. Maybe it was time he retired. He _knew_ Xemnas, after all. It wasn't as if his former apprentice had ever _succeeded_ in any of his grandiose plans.

The Universe was safe enough. It didn't need his help. No one really did.

**.oO0Oo.**

"Welcome aboard the Leaki Tiki, intrepid explorers! My name is Xaldin, and I'll be your captain — unless we run into trouble — in which case your new captain will be taking over…" He stroked the smooth skin of his cheeks where his sideburns had once been, and turned to the Guest on his right. "What was your name, again?"

The little poppet in golden curls and her Princess dress smiled winsomely up at him, displaying her missing front tooth. "Molly!"

"Pleasure to meet you, co-captain Molly." He made a show of turning the boat (and stabbing an animatronic crocodile to its sparking death with his hovering lances, earning applause from his audience). "Now, if you'll look just ahead, you'll see a crocodile playing with an elephant." He waited for the strained laughter (from the adults) and the adoring awws (from the children) to die down before continuing his spiel. "That's not something you see every day — but I do."

Back at the launch, Saïx pulled yet another incoming boat close enough to the dock for the passengers to unload. He had his list of witty sayings, of jokes and hokey banter, conveniently lost within his locker (which already sported _fussbudget_ in neon orange magic marker — and he felt voxeled, that his fellow employees cared enough about him to gift him with a nickname. He wasn't sure what a fussbudget was, but it sounded a lot like flutter-budget, and _that_ was properly elfy). So he offered his hand to clumsy tourists and growl pleasant greetings such as, "Get your lard-can off the boat!" and "Move it, whale who ate Jonah!" and "Watch yourself, and please don't step on small children indiscriminately. Pick the one you want and make sure you get him!"

He glowered as the boat Xaldin was piloting came near; snarled as Xaldin's snazzy patter reached his ears. "I left the Organization for this?" he whispered harshly as he lent a helping hand to sticky-faced kids. "Betrayed Xemnas for a six-hour shift without a paid lunch? How did you talk me into this?"

"Snack cakes," Xaldin said dreamily, leaning over his steering wheel. "Crispy treats and giant cookies, ice cream bars and frozen bananas; you can't walk more than twenty meters without coming across a stand or store or café. XVII has handed us heaven. Fudge, Saïx."

The scarred man nodded thoughtfully, and pushed a dewy-eyed newlywed couple into the murky green water. "Yes, the fudge about covers it."

"Plus, on my boat — I'm I! Leader, captain, the guy calling the shots, the—"

A safari-hatted man standing further up the dock yelled at the two Nobodies. "Hurry it up; they're piling up behind you!"

"—Numero Uno, I take orders from no one." Xaldin fondly patted the side of his boat. "Coming right up, sir!" He waved a cheerful good-by to his compatriot. "You know, I voxel this job!"

**.oO0Oo.**

"Dude, I betcha I can hit that cow."

Luxord peered over the wooden railing and surveyed the ground far, far below. "Tempting, but it all depends on what you plan to hit the cow _with_. If it's lasers — I'll pass. But if you can manage to spit on Bossy there, you've got yourself a bet."

Squinting his amber eye, Xigbar tongued a mouthful of drool. "Spit it is then. Whatcha plan to wager?"

"Tonight's dessert. Folks, if I could have your attention for one brief moment," the blond man called out to the crowd filling the casino, "I'm now taking bets on a most spectacular bit of marksmanship. My colleague Huggybear claims he can spit on _that_ cow," he pointed, nearly straight down, "with a wind speed of, say, fifteen kilometers per hour, nor-norwest. Distance… Well, our sonar's on the fritz again, but it's a goodly ways."

"I'd say," said one tipsy red haired man, clutching hard to the railing as he struggled to look. "I can't even see a cow. Thirty gil says the blighter can't do it."

"Fifty says he can!"

"You know," Luxord told Xigbar behind a concealing hand, "you're not supposed to bet on yourself."

"Tough cookies. D-dude," the patched man walked up the deck until he was standing in front of the musician, "you wanna take sides?"

Demyx continued his soft melody, his hands moving lightly across the strings of his sitar, but broke off his humming to answer. "Why should I bother? I get along fine with Cook; **_I_** never have trouble getting extra desserts."

"It's the spirit of the thing, D," the older blond joined in, his pockets rattling with newly wagered gil. "This is what normal guys do; hang out and make stupid bets, or so I'm told."

"Stupid, huh?" Demyx handed his sitar to one of the young lovelies who had been listening to him play, and went to see the cow for himself. "If it's _stupid_ you want, why don't you change the bet? For instance — say _I_ can hit Missy Moo. What odds would you offer on that?"

The crowd cheered, and bets flew all the more furiously (and almost all were _against_ the lounge act, for how good of an aim could a puny musician claim?) until Luxord declared it time. "Now my friends, the moment of truth! Can D hit the cow, or not?"

With a smirk and a sarcastic bow, Demyx raised his arms and shouted, "WATER!"

The cow never knew what hit her — and the ship full of drunken gamblers, while a might upset over their lost gil, were thrilled with their steak dinners.

**.oO0Oo.**

"Hello?" He wandered the halls, a crowd of cowering Sorcerers behind him. "Bumbling menials? I, your Superior, call upon you…" Silence met his demand (after the echoes faded away, '_you… you… you… ninny!_') and he turned questioning eyes to his magic hand mirror. "Where could they be? I don't recall sending anyone out on a mission. And are they bringing back pizza?"

The face in the mirror rolled its eyes, and looked as if it would rather be any place else than stuck inside the mirror. "That's the sixth time you've asked me this hour. They're gone, your Trendiness. Left you. Vamoosed. Amscrayed. Suck it **up**, deluded Master. You're here, alone — and that's how you're going to stay. Alone!"

"Not as alone as he might like," a threatening voice said — and _it_ echoed much more impressively. A black-coated figure came into view, wielding a Keyblade blazing with dark flame (and dazzling with sequins, but they weren't glued on very well, and you could already see where they'd started flaking away). "I've come for you, Xemnas," the mysterious adversary shouted, pulling back its hood to display one extremely pissed off Riku. "What have you done with Sora?"

"What have I done with who, now?" Xemnas hadn't the foggiest notion of what the boy was ranting on about — but he had much respect for the pointy demon-winged Keyblade heading his way. Especially the point (because the sequins were rather tacky). "Oh — nuts," he muttered, pulling up the hem of his coat and running off down the hall, Riku in close pursuit.

Left behind on the marble floor, the cracked magic hand mirror gave a happy sigh and vanished in a blast of pretty pretty particle effects.

**.oO0Oo.**

Roxas chewed on a mouthful of french fries and sweet and sour sauce, then swallowed. "Let's try this again, okay?" he said patiently, giving his Other an encouraging pat on his arm. "Who am I?"

Sora crinkled his nose, and pulled lettuce out of his hamburger, wondering if he was supposed to eat it, or toss it against the wall to see if it would stick (as the man seated across from him had done — and yes, it had stuck, much to the annoyance of the waitress). "You're Roxas."

"That's great!" Patiently, patiently, the blond boy showed his Other how to eat his lunch. "And she is?" he prompted, pointing at the beatifically smiling girl.

"Umm…" Sora stared at her, and scratched at his head (leaving a french fry stuck in his hair, which Roxas kindly pulled free). "She's — Minnie?"

"Oh, that's close!" Naminé told him encouragingly, her smile widening. "Real close. Why, you're just about there, Sora! And him?" she asked, nudging the redhead seated by her side. "You remember his name, don't you?"

"Ah… he's… Lutze?"

"No, he's not _Lutze_," Axel said — not nearly as patiently, and somewhat meanly to boot. "How many times do we hafta go over this? I'm—"

"Give him a _chance_, please?" Roxas pleaded, picking at his own soggy bun. "He's doing better; let him try again."

The red haired man humphed, and slurped at his double chocolate malted shake. "Yeah, okay. Whatever. He remembers _your_ name." He flicked a pickle to join the lettuce sliding down the booth's wall. "C'mon, Sora; you can do this." He pointed at himself, and leered charmingly. "I'm…"

"Salchow?"

"Urg, no! I'm Axel! A-X-E-L: Got it memorized?"

With a wicked grin of his own, Sora tapped the fuming man's nose with a french fry. "Heh, I knew it was some kind of an ice skating jump, Flip."

"Why, why you!" Axel spluttered, his face for one, brief, spectacular moment the same shade as his hair. "You putting me on the entire time!"

"Yep."

Calming, Axel slumped against the booth's backrest — and laughed. "Damn." He felt a bit like a cub scout leader; an adult in charge of an ADHD recess — but the feeling passed, and once again he was part of the group (inattentiveness and all). "Good one, Sora. Man, you guys…" He slung an arm around Naminé to include her (as she was not _a_ guy, but was well on her way to being part of _the_ guys), "You make me feel like we stand a chance."

It wasn't a bad feeling at all, for a man who wasn't supposed to feel — period.

**.oO0Oo.**

King Mickey crept through the shadowed alleyways, his black hood pulled over his head in an ultimately futile attempt to hide his large, round ears. He'd come to the city searching for answers, but all he'd found were further mysteries and questions he hadn't thought of asking. Nothing was as DiZ had reported in his many letters; there wasn't a single sign of Organization activity, and _that_ had the King worried enough to chew through pencils.

"Where could they all be?" he whispered to Pluto (fine canine companion, but he couldn't track for _nuthin'_). "I've asked some of the Dusks, but they haven't seen any of their Lieges for over a week."

"Oh, they packed up, moved on, portaled to greener pastures and happier hunting grounds," a high-pitched voice said from the darkest of the inky shadows enveloping the back of the alley. "Sorta a shame, really; they were a fun bunch. I'll miss them." From the darkness a form took shape: Short, and black coated, and sporting ridiculously large, round ears. "Got a postcard from D, though, so I can visit if I want."

"Who are you?" Mickey asked, taken aback by the _familiarity_ of the unknown speaker.

"Me?" He tossed back his own hood, and surveyed the King with beady, shining eyes. "I used to be XVII, but now? I don't know. Cixymek sounds **so** wrong — don't you think?"

"I-impossible!" The mouse King backed away from his Other, stumbling out into the Skyscraper's square. "I never lost my heart!"

"Oh, I beg to differ," the former XVII giggled squeakily. "I've got four little words for you — Heartless: Shelby, Tim, Jim, and Bill."

"But, I replaced them with even _better_ Dapper Dans! _Younger_ Dapper Dans!"

"La la la — Heartless," the ex-XVII sang. "And that's why you don't deserve your Kingdom. It's mine for the taking. I've got the funds," (in the form of _Delite_ bar sales), "and I've got the motivation. Your time has come, absentee King!" With a smirk he pulled out the Dark World's Keyblade (which was way wickeder than Soul Eater, for it came with batteries, and would never lose its sparkle). "There's only room in this Universe for one of us!"

"Oh, nuts," Mickey yelped before portaling out of the World That Never Was. Pluto, on the other hand, enjoyed the cookie bone his King's Nobody handed him.

**leave the Theater, enter Life**

**End Notes:** _Well, that's that :D I hope the very last section surprised a few people. Did it? Huh? Anyway, I'm taking a break — gonna work on icons for a bit before starting the sequel. Went ahead and made the KH2 claim at _iconfiend100_. Erm, I'll put a link to the LJ post in my profile for anyone that's interested. _

_Wonderful reviewers, I'll miss all of you dreadfully. _Gogo-chan_, your reviews have meant the world to me, allowing me t' see my ficcie through different eyes. They told me what was working — and occasionally pointed out booboos (die, typo!). I feel deeply honored that you've taken the time (again and again!) to review. You humble me with your praise — and make me want to write _better_ in the hopes of living up to it. _AnimeDutchess_, thank you for sticking with the story. I'm sorry the silly is over — but it was fun while it lasted, yes? —huggles— _AngelFlare_, your reviews have been insightful as well as humorous. I agree about Donald and Goofy; I went through the entire game making sure they _never_ had items equipped. Heh, and they _still_ lived. Imagine that. Everyone else that's taken the time to review — thanks!_

_Now, the _boring_ part. Lovely lyric credits go like this (in order of their appearance as Stage breaks; in-fic lyrics were credited by chapter, yeah):_

The Love Thieves_ — Depeche Mode  
_You've Got A Friend In Me_ — Randy Newman  
_Shopping_ — Barenaked Ladies  
_One Song_ — from Snow White  
_Ring Of Fire_ — Johnny Cash  
_The Gambler_ — Kenny Rogers  
_The Gift_ — Seether  
_Yard Sale_ — Sammy Kershaw  
_House Guest_ — Rkl  
_Hallelujah_ — Leonard Cohen  
_Commercial: Real American Heroes_ — Bud Light  
_Long Lost_ — Better Than Ezra  
_Pretzel Man_ — Harry Chapin  
_America's A Nice Italian Name_ — Allan Sherman  
_Find The River_ — REM  
_If I Knew You Were Comin' I'd've Baked A Cake_ — Eileen Barton  
_Oven_ — Seven Mary Three  
_Darkness Into Light_ — Paige  
_Who Needs Money_ — Elvis Presley  
_Left Behind_ — VNV Nation  
_The Last Battle_ — Forefather  
_Two Souls_ — Howard Jones  
_Emotional Blackmail_ — UK Subs  
_Betrayal_ — The Black Maria  
_Can't Feel My Soul_ — Teenage Fanclub  
_Meet Me Half Way_ — Kenny Loggins  
_All Dreams Must End_ — Anything Box_


End file.
